IT?; 


sity  of  California 
them  Regional 
)rary  Facility 


.  1** 


"Terence    O'Rourke 

Gentleman  Adventurer 


Louis    "Joseph    Vance 

Author  of  <<  The  Brass  Sato/,"  etc. 


Indianapolis 

The  Bobbs-Merrill  Company 
Publishers 


Copyright  1904 
AINSLEE  MAGAZINE  COMPANY 

Copyright  1905 
A.  WESSBLS  COMPANY 

Copyright  assigned 

THE  BOEBS-MERRILL  COMPANY 

August,  1907 


Preface 


A  originally  compiled,  this  history  appeared  serially 
under  the  titles  of  "O'Rourke,  Gentleman  Adven- 
turer," and  "The  Further  Adventures  of  O'Rourke," 
in  The  Popular  Magazine,  New  York:  to  Messrs.  Street  and 
Smith,  the  owners  and  publishers  of  which,  thanks  are  due 
for  their  courtesy  in  permitting  this  reproduction. 

In  welding  together  the  many  adventures  in  the  career  of 
this  Irish  gentleman,  with  a  view  to  their  appearance  in  this 
present  form,  the  author  found  both  convenient  and  advisable 
the  omission  of  certain  passages,  the  addition  of  some  new 
material,  as  well  as  other  minor  changes  in  the  text.  It  is 
hoped  that  these  alterations  will  meet  with  the  approval  of 
the  friends  of  Colonel  O'Rourke:  to  whom  his  biographer 
wishes  to  offer  his  gratitude  for  their  appreciation. 

L.  J.  V. 

NEW  YORK,  April,  1905. 


2133314 


Contents 

r 

PART  FIRS? 
The  Empire  of  Illusion 

CHAPTER  P4GE 

I      HE  IS  ROWELED  OF  THE  SPUR  OF  NECESSITY       .  I 

II    HE  is  "CHEZ  PAZ" 10 

III  HE  DECIDES  THAT  BEGGARS  SHOULD  RIDE  .     .  18 

IV  HE  DOES  RIDE;  AND  WITH  HIS  FATE       ...  26 
V    HE  ENGAGES  BOTH  HIS  WORD  AND  SWORD          .  33 

VI    HE  DRAWS  ONE  CARD 43 

VII    HE  CONSIDERS  THE  GREAT  SCHEME      ...  53 

VIII    HE  COMES  UPON  THE  RED-HEADED  ONE  65 

IX    HE  DEMONSTRATES  THE  USES  OF  DISCIPLINE     .  69 

X    HE  TAKES  COMMAND 82 

XI    HE  SAVES  THAT  WHICH  HE  LOVES  THE  BEST    .  94 

XII    HE  RESPECTS  A  FLAG  OF  TRUCE 105 

XIII    HE  PROVES  HIMSELF  MASTER  OF  MEN    .     .     .  114 

XTV    HE  ACTS  BY  THE  CODE 127 

XV    HE  is  ASTONISHED 137 

XVI    HE  RACES  WITH  DEATH 151 

XVII    HE  HAS  WON  THE  RACE 161 

XVIII    HE  FINDS  HIMSELF  IN  DEEP  WATERS  .     ,     .     .  170 


Contents 

r 

PART  SECOND 

The   Long 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

I    THE  CAFE  DE  LA  PAIX        187 

n    THE  INN  OF  THE  WINGED  GOD 199 

III  THE  NIGHT  OF  MADNESS 219 

IV  THE  RAT  TRAP 228 

V    THE  OPEN  ROAD 2^2 

VI    THE  GODDESS  OF  EGYPTIAN  NIGHT    ....  247 

VII    THE  Russ  INCOGNITO 255 

VIII    THE  WORDS  OF  DELILAH 262 

IX    THE  PALACE  OF  DUST 269 

X    THE  HAND 285 

XI    THE  CONSPIRATORS 291 

XII    THE  CONSUL-GENERAL 305 

XIII    THE  VOICES  OF  THE  NIGHT 316 

XTV    THE  CAPTAIN  OF  VILLAINY 329 

XV    THE  HOMEWARD-BOUND 342 

XVI    THE  Two  MESSAGES 349 

XVII    THE  ROAD  TO  PARADISE 355 

XVIII    THE  DEVIL  IN  THE  DUKE 366 

XIX    THE  DOOR  TO  ETERNITY 375 

XX    THE  END  OF  THE  QUEST 388 


-'X*  -x-  -x-  as  <x-  a»  •X 
PART  FIRST 


Empire  of  Illusion 


CHAPTER  I 

HE  IS  ROWELED  OF  THE  SPUR  OF  NECESSITY 

MADAME  THERESE  was  of  a  heavy  build  —  round 
and  stout  and  comfortable-looking;  nevertheless  she 
possessed  a  temper.  The  vicious  bang  of  the  door  behind 
her  was  evidence  of  that  sufficient  unto  O'Rourke,  even  if  he 
had  not  the  memory  of  her  recent  words  to  remind  him  of 
the  fact. 

He  drew  a  long  and  disconsolate  face,  standing  in  the 
precise  center  of  what  he  called  his  "compartment"  —  it 
was  six  feet  one  way  by  nine  another,  and  boasted  of  but  one 
window,  set  in  a  slanting  roof.  His  mobile  and  sympathetic 
lips  drooped  dolefully  at  the  corners;  his  expressive  brows 
puckered  wofully  over  the  bridge  of  his  nose;  and  even  the 
nose  itself  was  crinkling  with  dismay.  Madame's  words 
still  rang  in  his  ears,  even  as  the  sound  of  her  descending 
footsteps  was  still  distinctly  audible  —  and  Madame  Therese 
was  by  then  on  the  fifth  flight  down,  the  second  up  from  the 
street. 

"The  rent!"  she  had  shrilled  tempestuously.  "The  rent, 
m'sieur,  must  be  paid  by  to-morrow  morning  !  Otherwise  —  " 

O'Rourke  sighed  from  the  bottom  of  his  heart.  "Faith, 
yes!"  he  said  plaintively.  "Otherwise  .  .  .  Oh,  sure!"  He 
frowned  at  the  cracks  hi  the  floor,  and  with  one  forefinger 


Terence  O'Rourke,  Gentleman  Adventurer 

tentatively  caressed  a  light  stubble  of  beard  on  his  square 
chin. 

But  presently  it  occurred  to  him  that  care  had  been  re- 
sponsible for  the  death  of  the  domestic  cat.  He  smiled 
faintly,  apprehensively,  as  though  half  afraid  that  a  smile 
would  hurt;  finding  the  experiment  painless  he  prolonged 
it,  grinning  broadly. 

Below  stairs,  the  last  echoing  thump  of  Madame's  feet  was 
to  be  heard.  O'Rourke  lifted  his  shoulders  together,  sighed> 
chuckled,  and  anathematized  his  landlady. 

"Brrrrr!"  cried  O'Rourke,  with  a  flirt  of  his  hand  in  the 
general  direction  of  the  conciergerie.  "  Brrrrr p!  And  may 
the  Old  Boy  fly  away  with  ye!" 

He  turned  to  the  window,  dismissing  his  troubles  with  a 
second  shrug  of  his  broad  shoulders,  and,  leaning  his  elbows 
on  the  sills  and  himself  perilously  far  out  over  the  eaves, 
stared  earnestly  at  a  window  in  the  attic  of  the  house  that 
stood  just  behind  O'Rourke's  hdtel.  But  it  proved  vacant. 

O'Rourke  pursed  his  lips  and  whistled  persuasively. 
"Faith,  darlint,"  said  he,  and  as  earnestly  as  though  he  really 
expected  to  be  heard,  "  'tis  no  more  than  a  glimpse  of  your 
red  cheeks  and  bright  eyes  that  I'm  needing  to  put  the  heart 
into  me.  Will  ye  not  come,  —  only  for  one  little  minute  ?  " 

He  whistled  again,  more  piercingly.  There  was  no  re- 
sponse; the  little  dormer  window,  where  a  black-eyed  and 
red-cheeked  little  seamstress  ordinarily  sat  of  a  morning, 
sewing  industriously  —  but  not  too  industriously  to  be  alto- 
gether unaware  of  the  infatuated  Irishman's  burning  glances 
—  remained  desolately  empty. 

"Oh,  well!"  conceded  O'Rourke,  in  the  end.  "If  'tis 
obstinate  ye  are,  me  dear,  sure  and  that  only  proves  ye  a  true 
daughter  of  Mother  Eve!" 


He  is  Roweled  of  the  Spur  of  Necessity 

And  he  swung  a  chair  up  to  the  window  and  sat  down, 
cocking  his  feet  upon  the  sill.  A  pipe  lay  convenient  to  his 
hand  —  a  small  and  intensely  black  clay;  unconsciously 
O'Rourke's  fingers  wandered  towards  it.  They  clasped  with 
loving  tenderness  about  the  bowl,  while  the  fingers  of  his 
other  hand  explored  his  coat  pocket  for  a  match.  That 
found,  the  Irishman  discovered  a  fresh  beauty  in  the  brilliant 
morning  —  a  beauty  but  enhanced  by  the  clouds  of  blue- 
gray  incense  that  floated  between  him  and  the  open  casement. 

By  degrees,  however,  his  smile  faded.  Not  always  was  it 
possible  for  O'Rourke  to  laugh  in  the  teeth  of  his  adversities. 

His  gaze  wandered  far  out  from  the  open  window  and  over 
the  billowy  sea  of  Parisian  roofs  that  lay  steaming  in  a  bath 
of  May  sunshine. 

The  morning  was  one  clear  and  brilliant,  following  on  the 
heels  of  a  day  of  scourging  rain.  Paris  was  happy;  her  face 
was  washed,  and  she  had  on  a  clean  pinafore  dashed  writh  the 
perfume  of  the  spring  things  that  were  budding  in  her  gar- 
dens. O'Rourke  alone,  perhaps,  was  out  of  tune  with  the 
universal  spirit  of  contentment. 

Now,  good  reasons  why  a  man  may  be  out  of  sorts  in  a 
Parisian  springtide  are  few  and  far  between;  but  they  exist; 
O'Rourke  had  brought  his  with  him  when  he  had  moved 
upon  the  capital  on  the  edge  of  the  winter,  just  vanished;  and 
thereafter  he  had  eaten  and  slept,  moved  and  had  his  being 
in  their  company,  enduring  them  with  what  patience  he 
might  —  which  was  not  overmuch,  in  truth.  But  now  he 
was  especially  wistful  and  uneasy  in  his  actions. 

His  supply  of  ready  cash  was  not  alarmingly  low;  it  was 
non-existent  —  one  all-sufficient  reason  for  the  disquietude 
of  his  soul. 

Again,  city  life  irked  the  man,  who  was  of  a  nature  tran- 

[3] 


Terence  O'Rourke,  Gentleman  Adventurer 

sient,  delaying  under  one  roof  no  longer  than  was  unavoid- 
able —  happiest,  indeed,  with  no  more  than  the  wide  sky  for 
his  bed  canopy,  the  soft  stars  for  his  night  lamps. 

Finally,  for  some  months  O'Rourke  had  been  kicking  the 
heels  of  him  about  the  pavements  of  civilization,  devoutly 
praying  for  a  war  of  magnitude;  but  hi  answer  to  his  prayers 
no  war  had  been  vouchsafed  unto  him. 

The  broad  world  drowsed,  sluggish,  at  peace  with  its 
neighbors  —  save  in  a  corner  of  Afghanistan,  where  the 
British  Empire  was  hurling  army  corps  after  army  corps  at 
the  devoted  heads  of  an  insignificant,  bewildered  tribe  of  hill- 
men  who  had  presumed  to  call  their  souls  their  own  —  know- 
ing no  better. 

But  the  tempest  in  that  particular  teapot  had  slight  attrac- 
tions for  O'Rourke,  sincere  seeker  after  distraction  and  de- 
struction that  he  was.  He  felt  rather  sorry  for  the  hill  tribe 
who  at  the  same  tune  were  beginning  to  feel  rather  more  than 
sorry  for  themselves,  and  to  wish  that  they  hadn't  done  so. 

The  Irishman,  however,  positively  refused  to  fight  with, 
if  he  did  not  care  to  fight  against,  England.  So  there  was, 
in  his  own  disconsolate  phrasing,  nothing  doing  at  all, 
at  all. 

And  now  the  concierge  was  insisting  upon  the  payment  of 
that  overdue  rent.  Plainly,  something  must  be  contrived, 
and  that  with  expedition. 

O'Rourke  swore,  yawned,  stretched  widely.  He  re- 
moved his  feet  from  the  window  sill,  and  arose. 

"I'll  do  it,"  he  said  aloud.  "Faith,  'tis  like  pulling  teeth 
—  but  I'll  do  it.  I  despise  the  necessity.  Conspuez  the 
necessity!  A  has  the  necessity!" 

At  the  foot  of  the  bed  stood  his  sole  personal  property  —  a 
small,  iron-bound  trunk,  aged  and  disreputable  to  the  eye, 

[4] 


He  is  Roweled  of  the  Spur  of  Necessity 

sown  broadcast  with  the  labels  of  hotels,  railways  and  steam- 
ships. 

O'Rourke  went  to  it  with  a  deep  and  heartfelt  sigh,  un- 
locked it,  and  for  a  space  delved  into  its  tumbled  contents, 
eventually  emerging  flushed  and  triumphant  from  his  search, 
with  a  watch  in  his  hand  —  a  watch  of  fine  gold,  richly 
chased,  and  studded  with  gems. 

He  shook  his  head,  gazing  upon  it,  and  sighed  deeply. 

Long  since  the  timepiece  had  been  presented  to  O'Rourke 
by  the  grateful  president  of  a  South  American  republic,  in 
recognition  of  the  Irish  adventurer's  services  as  a  captain- 
general  under  that  republic's  flag.  It  was  so  stated  in  an 
inscription  within  the  case. 

O'Rourke  treasured  it  lovingly,  as  he  treasured  the  por- 
trait of  his  mother,  his  love  for  the  land  of  his  nativity,  the 
parting  smile  of  his  last  sweetheart.  He  treasured  it  as  he 
valued  his  honorable  discharge  from  the  Foreign  Legion,  the 
sword  he  had  won  in  Cuba,  and  the  captain's  commission  he 
had  once  held  under  the  Grecian  flag. 

But  — the  rent! 

He  slammed  his  hat  upon  his  head,  the  watch  into  his 
pocket,  and  the  door  behind  him;  he  was  going  to  call  upon 
his  "aunt  in  Montmartre." 

When  he  returned  he  was  minus  the  timepiece,  but  able  to 
reinstate  himself  in  the  concierge's  graces.  Indeed,  as  she 
signed  the  receipt,  the  lady  declared  that  she  had  always 
known  in  her  soul  that  monsieur  was  an  honorable  gentleman. 

O'Rourke  accepted  the  honeyed  words  sourly,  disgruntled 
to  the  extreme.  He  had  a  residue  of  a  very  few  francs: 
actual  hardship  was  but  staved  off  for  several  days.  Never- 
theless, he  had  indulged  himself  in  the  luxury  of  a  complete 
file  of  the  day's  papers. 

[5] 


Back  in  his  little  room  again  he  read  them  all,  thoroughly, 
even  with  eagerness;  read  the  foreign  news  first,  then  the 
native,  the  scandal,  the  advertisements  —  even  the  editorials. 

He  found  that  England  had  completed  her  subjugation  of 
the  hill  tribes,  and  incidentally  the  education  of  her  rawest 
troops.  On  the  horizon  no  war  cloud  threatened  —  unless 
in  one  spot. 

From  a  meager  paragraph,  eked  out  by  his  knowledge  of 
^Central  American  politics,  O'Rourke  gleaned  a  ray  of  hope: 
trouble  boded  on  the  Isthmus  of  Panama.  But  that  was 
indeed  far  from  Paris. 

He  put  aside  his  pipe  and  the  last  sheet,  and  glowered 
longingly  across  the  roofs  to  the  western  sky  line. 

What  his  eyes  rested  upon,  he  saw  not;  mentally  he  was 
imaging  to  himself,  scenting,  even  feeling  the  heat  haze  that 
lowers  above  that  narrow  ribbon  of  swamp,  rock-spined, 
which  lies  obdurate  between  two  oceans. 

On  his  businesses  of  the  moment  he  had  crossed  the  isth- 
mus several  times.  He  had  warred  in  its  vicinity.  He  knew 
it  very  well  indeed,  and  were  there  to  be  ructions  there  he 
desired  greatly  to  be  in  and  a  part  of  them  —  to  grip  the  hilt 
of  a  sword,  to  hold  a  horse  between  his  thighs,  to  sweat  and 
swelter,  to  toil  and  to  suffer,  to  fight  —  above  all,  to  fight  — ! 

Clearly  the  obvious  course  of  action  was  to  go  —  to  stand 
not  on  the  order  of  his  going,  but  to  go  at  once. 

O'Rourke  started  from  his  chair,  with  some  half- formu- 
lated notion  of  proceeding  directly  to  the  Gare  du  Nord,  and 
taking  train  for  Havre;  thence,  he  would  engage  passage  via 
the  French  line  to  New  York,  thence,  by  coasting  steamer  to 
Aspinwall. 

The  route  mapped  itself  plain  to  his  imagination;  the  way 
was  simple,  very;  there  was  but  one  complication.  Realizing 

[6] 


He  is  Roweled  of  the  Spur  of  Necessity 

which  O'Rourke  sat  down  again,  and  cursed  bitterly,  if 
fluently. 

"The  divvle!"  he  murmured  in  disgust.  "Now,  if  I 
hadn't  been  so  enthusiastic  for  paying  me  rent  — " 

He  produced  his  fortune  and  contemplated  it  with  a  dis- 
gusted glare :  five  silver  francs  and  a  centime  or  two,  glittering 
bright  in  the  rays  of  the  declining  sun. 

"Why,  sure,"  he  mused,  "  'tis  not  enough  to  buy  the  dinner 
for  a  little  bird  —  and  'tis  meself  that's  no  small  bird!" 

Now,  how  may  a  man  by  taking  thought  increase  five 
francs  one  or  two  or  three  hundred  fold  ? 

At  nightfall  he  concluded  to  give  it  up,  the  problem  looming 
unsolvable.  There  seemed  to  be  no  answer  to  it,  and 
O'Rourke  was  considering  himself  a  much  abused  person 
with  no  friend  to  call  his  own  the  wide  world  'round,  bar- 
ring— 

"Paz!"  he  cried  suddenly.  "And  why  did  I  not  think  of 
Paz  before,  will  ye  be  telling  me  ?  " 

He  sat  silent  for  some  time,  wrapped  in  thought,  as  in  a 
mantle. 

"Likely  am  I  to  go  hungry,  the  night,"  he  admitted  at 
length,  ruefully;  "but  I'll  dine  in  style  or  not  at  all." 

Incontinently,  he  began  to  bustle  about  the  narrow  room 
• —  how  he  had  grown  to  hate  its  mean  confines  of  late !  — 
preparing  to  go  out. 

He  started  by  shaving  his  lean  cheeks,  indelibly  sun- 
burned, very  closely;  then  he  wriggled  into  the  one  immacu- 
late shirt  his  wardrobe  boasted,  brushed  with  care  and 
donned  his  evening  clothes  and  an  Inverness;  and  completed 
his  adornment  with  gloves  and  shoes  of  the  sleekest  —  both 
of  which  he  had  been  hoarding  all  the  winter  against  just  such 
an  emergency. 

[71 


Terence  O'Rourke,  Gentleman  Adventurer 

When  through  he  indulged  in  a  moment's  approving  in< 
spection  in  his  mirror,  and  nodded  with  satisfaction  because 
of  the  transformation  he  had  brought  about  in  his  personal 
appearance. 

"I'll  say  this  for  ye,  Terence,  me  lad,"  he  volunteered: 
"that  when  ye  are  of  the  mind  to  take  trouble  with  yourself, 
'tis  the  bould,  dashing  creature  ye  are ! " 

And  he  chuckled  light-heartedly  at  his  own  conceit,  ex- 
tinguishing the  lamp  and  locking  his  door. 

Yet  he  had  no  more  than  hinted  at  the  irrefutable  truth, 
for  he  was  by  no  means  ill-favored  by  nature :  a  man  tall  and 
broad  beyond  the  average,  with  sqfuare  shoulders  and  a  full 
chest,  with  lean  yet  muscular  flanks  and  long  and  sinewy 
limbs,  well-knit  and  wrell  set-up.  His  countenance  was  dark, 
—  as  has  been  indicated,  the  hall  mark  of  a  veteran  cam- 
paigner —  but  nevertheless  of  a  versatile  mobility,  and 
illuminated  with  eyes  of  warm  gray,  steadfast  yet  alert,  swift 
to  mirror  the  play  of  his  emotional  and  passionate  nature, 
bespeaking  good-humor,  an  easy  temper  and  —  ordinarily 
at  least  —  a  habit  of  optimism. 

For  the  rest  he  carried  himself  with  confidence  and  assur- 
ance, as  fits  well  upon  an  Irish  gentleman  —  was  he  not  "  the 
O'Rourke"?  —  but  without  any  aggressiveness.  He  was 
ready  of  wit,  quick  of  tongue,  tolerant  of  disposition :  a  citizen 
of  the  wide  world,  seasoned,  sure  of  himself,  young. 

He  descended  the  stairs  with  spirit,  passed  out  before  the 
conciergerie  with  an  air.  Madame  Therese,  the  vigilant,  ob- 
served and  admired,  regretting  the  harsh  terms  she  had 
applied  to  her  lodger,  earlier  in  the  day.  "He  gives  the 
hotel  distinction,"  she  murmured;  and  resolved  mentally  that 
in  the  future  she  would  accord  this  splendid  young  person 
mo~e  consideration. 

[8] 


He  is  Roweled  of  the  Spur  of  Necessity 

Now,  it  so  came  about  that  Madame  The"rese  was  not 
afforded  the  opportunity  of  putting  in  effect  that  good  resolu- 
tion for  many  and  many  a  long  day;  the  turn  of  affairs 
presently  precluded  Colonel  O'Rourke's  return  to  his  little 
room.  Which,  however,  was  not  greatly  to  his  dissatisfac- 
tion. 

But  at  the  moment,  O'Rourke  himself  had  no  more  appre- 
hension of  this  than  had  she.  He  was,  in  point  of  fact,  antici- 
pating an  early  return  and  a  penniless  to-morrow.  The 
prospect  did  not  tend  to  lighten  his  mood. 

In  the  street  he  turned  and  cocked  a  —  momentarily  — 
jaundiced  eye  up  at  the  towering,  smudged,  gloomy  facade 
of  the  lodging  house. 

"'Tis  no  palace  ye  are,"  he  apostrophized  it,  hating  it 
consumedly;  "'tis  no  gilded  cage  ye  are,  for  a  bird  of  me 
brilliant  plumage.  But  'tis  needs  must  whin  the  divvle 
drives,  I've  heard  —  and  if  wishes  were  motors,  this  beggar 
would  ride!"  And  then,  "Faith,  'tis  damnable  —  no  less!" 
he  declared  with  a  short  laugh.  "To  think  of  me,  the 
O'Rourke,  in  all  me  fine  feathers,  that  can't  so  much  as 
afford  the  price  of  a  fiacre! " 


193 


CHAPTER  H 
HE  is  "CHEZ  PAZ" 

THE  house  of  Paz  fronts  upon  the  Boulevard  Roche- 
chouart  —  which  is  not  the  worst  street  in  Paris,  morally, 
though  near  it  —  and  wears  the  dismayed,  ingenuous  expres- 
sion of  a  perfectly  innocent  house  which  suddenly  finds  itself 
rooted  in  a  neighborhood  which  is  —  well,  not  perfectly  inno- 
cent. In  other  words,  the  house  managed  by  Monsieur 
Paz  is  something  of  a  hypocrite  among  houses;  in  sober 
reality  it  is  no  better  than  it  ought  to  be,  or  even  not  so  good. 

A  high,  pale  yellow  facade  is  broken  by  orderly  rows  of 
windows  that  are  always  blank  and  sleepy-looking;  never  is 
a  light  visible  from  within,  and  for  a  very  good  reason :  they 
are  fitted  with  an  ingenious  device  which  allows  for  ventila- 
tion, but  does  not  permit  a  single  ray  of  light  to  escape  to  the 
street. 

It  was  somewhat  after  eight  o'clock  in  the  evening  that 
O'Rourke  approached,  having  traversed  the  width  of  Paris 
in  order  to  reach  the  place. 

In  previous,  more  prosperous  days  he  had  known  the  house 
of  Paz  rather  intimately  —  too  well,  at  times,  for  the  good  of 
his  own  interests.  But  of  late,  in  his  lowly  estate,  he  had 
neither  cared  nor  dared  to  pass  its  portals;  which  are  not  for 
the  impecunious. 

At  present,  however,  he  had  a  use  for  it,  and  was  relying 
both  upon  his  former  acquaintance  therein  and  his  generally 
affluent  appearance  to  procure  for  him  admittance  to  its 

[10] 


He  is  "Chez  Paz" 

charmed  precincts  —  something  none  too  easy  to  a  stranger 
without  credentials. 

He  neared  it,  I  say,  and  with  some  trepidation,  becoming 
to  a  man  of  emotions  who  is  going  to  stake  his  all  on  a  single 
throw,  —  which  was  what  O'Rourke  proposed  to  do,  — 
eying  the  exterior  aspect  of  the  place  with  a  wonder  as  to  what 
changes  might  have  occurred  within,  in  the  few  years  that  he 
had  been  a  stranger  to  its  walls. 

While  yet  some  distance  away  he  observed  the  door  opening 
with  circumspection.  For  a  single  second  the  figure  of  a 
departing  patron  was  outlined  in  the  light;  then  the  doors 
swung  to,  swiftly  and  noiselessly. 

O'Rourke  remarked,  without  great  interest,  that  it  was  a 
young  man  who  was  leaving  so  early  in  the  night;  a  man  who 
stood  hesitant  at  the  foot  of  the  steps,  glancing  up  and  down 
the  street  irresolutely,  as  one  who  knows  not  whither  to  go. 

In  a  moment,  however,  he  seemed  to  have  made  up  his 
mind,  and  started  off  toward  O'Rourke,  walking  briskly,  but 
without  any  spring  in  his  step,  holding  his  head  high,  his 
shoulders  back.  There  was  a  suggestion  of  the  military  in 
his  bearing. 

As  he  passed,  O'Rourke  noted  the  tightly  compressed  lips, 
the  hopeless,  lack-luster  eyes  of  the  man. 

"Cleaned  out  —  poor  chap!"  he  sympathized. 

Simultaneously  the  doors  open  again,  briefly;  a  second 
man  emerged,  ran  hastily  down  the  steps,  and  started  up  the 
street  as  though  in  pursuit  of  the  first. 

This  man  was  of  an  uncommon  and  distinguished  appear- 
ance; large  and  heavily  built,  yet  lithe  and  active;  with  a  fat- 
cheeked  face,  bearded  sparsely;  thick  lips  showing  red  through 
the  dark  hair;  a  thin,  chiseled  nose  set  between  eyes  pouched, 
yet  bright  and  kindly,  the  whole  surmounted  by  a  forehead 

E«3 


high  and  well  modeled  —  a  type  of  Gallic  intellectuality,  in 
short. 

He  swung  past  the  Irishman  hurriedly,  intent  upon  his 
chase,  but  favored  him  with  a  searching  scrutiny  —  which 
O'Rourke  returned  with  composure,  if  not  with  impudent 
interest. 

But  the  evening  was  yet  young,  and  there  was  nothing  in 
the  encounter  to  particularly  engage  his  fancy;  he  dismissed 
it  from  his  mind,  and  turned  into  the  house  of  Paz. 

He  knocked  peculiarly :  the  familiar  signal  of  old.  A  min- 
ute passed,  and  then  a  panel  in  the  door  slid  back,  exposing  a 
small  grating,  behind  which  was  the  withered  face  of  the  con- 
cierge, with  a  background  of  dim,  religious  light. 

"O'Rourke,"  announced  the  Irishman,  languidly,  turning 
his  face  to  the  window  for  identification. 

That  was  scarcely  needed.  His  name  was  a  magic  one; 
the  concierge  knew,  and  had  a  welcome  for  one  who  had  been 
so  liberal  in  the  matter  of  gratuities  in  days  gone  by.  The 
doors  swung  wide. 

"M'sieur  le  Colonel  O'Rourke!"  murmured  the  concierge, 
bowing  respectfully. 

O'Rourke  returned  the  greeting  and  passed  in,  with  the 
guilty  feeling  of  a  trespasser.  He  disposed  of  his  Inverness 
and  hat,  and  ascended  the  stairway  directly  to  the  second 
floor. 

Here  was  one  huge  room,  in  floor  space  the  width  and 
depth  of  the  building,  infinitely  gorgeous  in  decoration,  shim- 
mering with  light  reflected  from  gold  leaf,  from  polished  wood 
and  marble. 

Around  the  walls  were  chairs  and  small  refreshment  tables; 
the  floor  was  covered  with  rugs  of  heavy  pile,  well-nigh  in- 
valuable, the  walls  with  paintings  of  note  and  distinction. 

[12] 


He  is  "Chez  Paz" 

Beyond  reasonable  doubt  Monsieur  Paz  was  prosperous, 
who  could  provide  such  a  sdle  for  the  entertainment  of  his 
patrons. 

But  in  the  center  of  the  room  was  the  main  attraction  — 
that  lodestone  which  drew  the  interest  of  the  initiated  with 
a  fascination  as  irresistible  as  the  magnetic  pole  holds  for  the 
needle :  an  enormous  table  topped  with  green  cloth  whereon 
was  limned  a  diagram  of  many  numbered  spaces  and 
colors. 

And  in  the  center  of  the  table,  under  the  electric  chandelier, 
was  a  sunken  basin  of  ebony,  at  whose  bottom  was  a  wheel  of 
thirty-seven  sections,  alternately  red  and  black,  each  num- 
bered from  o  to  36 :  the  roulette  wheel. 

O'Rourke  slid  unostentatiously  into  a  vacant  seat  at  the 
extreme  end  of  the  table.  A  man  at  his  elbow  looked  up 
with  passing  curiosity,  but  immediately  averted  his  gaze; 
otherwise  the  Irishman  attracted  no  attention.  For  a  few 
minutes  he  sat  idle,  watching  the  play,  the  players,  the  crou- 
pier presiding  over  the  wheel  —  a  figure  that  fascinated  his 
imagination:  a  man  vulture-like  with  his  frigid  impassivity, 
mathematically  marvelous  in  the  swiftness,  the  unerring 
accuracy  of  his  mental  computations  as  he  paid  out  the  win- 
nings or  raked  in  the  losings. 

He  stood,  imperturbable,  watching  the  board  with  vigilant, 
tired  eyes,  his  bald  head  shining  like  glass  under  the  sagging 
electric  sunburst.  From  time  to  time  he  opened  his  wicked 
old  mouth,  and  croaked  dismally  the  winning  number  and 
color,  whether  odd  or  even.  Followed  the  ring  of  coin  and 
the  monotonous  injunction : 

"Messieurs,  jaites  vos  jeux!" 

The  salle  was  very  still,  save  for  the  sound  of  the  spinning 
ivory  ball,  the  click  of  the  wheel,  the  cries  of  the  croupier. 


To  O'Rourke,  new  from  the  freshness  of  the  spring  air,  the 
atmosphere  was  stifling  and  depressing  —  hot,  fetid,  lifeless 
though  charged  with  the  hopes  and  fears  of  those  absorbed 
men  who  clustered  around  the  board,  sowing  its  painted  face 
with  coin  and  bills,  hanging  breathlessly  on  the  words  of  the 
croupier,  as  he  relentlessly  garnered  the  harvest  of  lost  illu- 
sions. 

The  Irishman  was  not  yet  ready  to  bet,  having  counted  on 
the  room  being  more  crowded,  forgetful  of  the  early  hour. 
He  had  but  one  play  to  make,  the  lowest  the  house  permitted 
—  five  francs,  —  and  it  was  so  insignificant  a  sum  that  the 
man  felt  some  embarrassment  about  offering  it,  fearing  that 
it  might  attract  sneering  comment.  In  a  crowd  it  might  have 
passed,  especially  if  he  lost  —  as,  in  all  likelihood,  he  would. 

He  summoned  an  attendant  and  ordered  a  cigar — "on 
the  house"  —  to  make  time;  and  while  he  was  waiting,  eyed 
the  man  opposite  him,  at  the  farther  end  of  the  table. 

The  latter  was  young,  weary  and  worried,  if  his  facial  ex- 
pression went  for  aught;  he  played  feverishly,  scattering  gold 
pieces  over  the  cloth  —  as  often  as  not,  probably,  betting 
against  himself.  His  face  was  flushed,  for  he  had  been 
drinking  more  than  could  have  been  good  for  his  judgment; 
and  O'Rourke  fancied  he  recognized  in  him  the  youthful 
lieutenant  of  a  cavalry  troop  then  quartered  near  Paris. 

Abruptly  a  man  flung  into  the  room,  as  if  in  anger;  at 
the  door  he  paused  to  collect  himself,  scanning  each  player 
narrowly,  and  finally  chose  a  seat  near  the  lieutenant. 

" Hello!"  thought  O'Rourke.  "So  you're  back  so  soon! 
I  wonder  —  well,  none  of  me  business,  I  suppose." 

It  was  the  man  with  the  beard  whom  he  had  noticed  leav- 
ing the  gambling  house  in  such  apparent  haste,  and  not  so 
very  long  since. 

[14] 


He  is  "Chez  Paz" 

The  attendant  returning  with  the  cigar,  the  Irishman  lit  it 
leisurely,  and  sat  puffing  with  an  enjoyment  heightened  by 
the  fact  that  he  had  been  deprived  of  the  luxury  of  cigars  for 
some  weeks. 

Presently  he  turned  his  attention  to  the  board,  and  acted  a 
little  farce  for  his  own  self-satisfaction. 

With  the  air  of  a  man  of  means,  who  merely  desires  to  while 
away  an  idle  hour  —  win  or  lose  —  O'Rourke  thrust  his 
hand  into  his  breast  pocket  and  produced  a  small  wallet, 
tolerably  plump  and  opulent-looking  —  a  result  due  to  in- 
genious stuffing  with  paper  of  no  value. 

He  weighed  it  in  his  palm,  seeming  to  debate  with  himself, 
then  deliberately  returned  it  to  the  pocket.  His  manner 
spoke  plainly  to  the  observer  —  were  there  one:  "No;  I'll 
risk  but  a  trifle  of  change." 

Abstractedly  he  thrust  his  fingers  into  his  waistcoat  pocket 
and  brought  out  the  said  change;  to  his  utter  surprise  it 
turned  out  to  be  no  more  than  five  silver  francs! 

But  finally  he  made  up  his  mind  to  play  that  utterly  insig- 
nificant sum. 

At  that  moment  the  ball  rattled,  was  silent.  There  was  an 
instant's  strained  silence.  The  wheel  stopped. 

"  Vingt-quatre,"  remarked  the  dispassionate  croupier; 
"noir,  pair  et  passe!" 

He  poised  his  rake,  overlooking  the  great  board. 

The  young  lieutenant  arose  suddenly,  knocking  over  his 
chair;  he  stood  swaying  for  a  moment,  his  fingers  beating  a 
nervous  tattoo  upon  the  edge  of  the  board;  he  was  pale,  his 
face  hollow-seeming  and  hopeless  in  the  strong  illumination. 
Others  looked  at  him  incuriously.  He  put  his  hand  to  his 
lips,  almost  apologetically,  essayed  what  might  have  been 
intended  for  a  defiant  smile,  turned,  and  moved  uncertainly 


Terence  O'Rourke,  Gentleman  Adventurer 

toward  the  staircase  as  one  who  gropes  his  way  in  darkness 
—  a  ruined  man. 

"Messieurs,  faites  vos  jeux!" 

O'Rourke  hardly  heard  the  words;  he  was  wondering  at 
the  bearded  man,  who  was  prompt  in  following  the  defeated 
gamester. 

"  'Like  to  know  what's  your  game,"  muttered  O'Rourke. 

Simultaneously,  without  actually  thinking  what  he  was 
doing,  he  placed  his  five  francs  on  the  cloth.  When  he 
looked  he  saw  that  they  stood  upon  the  nearest  space,  the 
36.  He  puckered  his  lips  together,  thinking  what  a  pitiful 
little  pile  they  made. 

"  'Tis  the  fool  I  am!"  he  admitted,  wishing  that  he  might 
withdraw.  But  the  ball  merely  mocked  him,  as  the  wheel 
slackened  speed,  with  its  "whrr-rup-tup-tup!" 

"A  fool  — "  he  began  again. 

But  it  seemed  that  he  had  won ! 

"'Tis  not  true!"  he  cried  exultantly,  yet  almost  incredu- 
lous. But  he  accepted  the  one  hundred  and  eighty  francs 
without  a  murmur,  cast  them  recklessly  upon  the  black,  and 
multiplied  the  sum  by  two,  and  by  blind  luck. 

Then,  with  his  heart  in  his  mouth  —  it  was  all  or  nothing 
with  him  now  —  he  allowed  his  winnings  to  remain  upon 
the  black;  which  again  came  up,  making  seven  hundred 
and  twenty  francs  to  his  credit. 

"'Tis  outrageous,"  he  insisted  gaily.  "Will  I  be  making 
it,  now?" 

Fifteen  hundred  francs  was  the  mark  he  had  set  himself  to 
attain;  that  much  he  needed  to  carry  him  to  Panama;  it  was 
to  be  that  or  nothing  at  all.  He  divided  his  winnings,  re- 
serving half,  scattering  the  remainder  about  the  numbers, 
hope  high  in  his  heart. 

[16] 


He  is  "Chez  Paz" 

He  lost.  He  played  and  won  again.  And  again.  He 
reached  the  mark,  passed  it,  asked  himself  if  he  should  not 
stop,  now,  when  the  gods  were  favoring  him. . . . 

He  need  not  have  asked;  by  no  means  could  he  have 
stopped;  for  the  gambling  fever  was  as  fire  in  his  veins.  He 
played  on,  and  on,  and  on.  He  won  fabulously,  with  few  re- 
verses; lived  for  a  time  in  a  heaven  of  wealth,  upborne  by  the 
fluttering,  golden  wings  of  chance  —  and,  at  length,  awoke  as 
from  a  dream,  to  find  himself  staring  at  an  empty  spot  on  the 
board  before  him  —  the  place  where  temporarily  his  riches 
had  rested  ere  they  took  unto  themselves  wings  and  vanished. 

Not  a  single  franc  remained  to  him.     He  had  lost. 

"  Gone  ?  "  he  muttered  blankly.  "  Faith,  I  didn't  think—" 
He  became  aware  that  he  was  being  watched,  though  indiffer- 
ently; in  particular  the  man  with  the  beard  was  observing 
him  with  interest,  having  now  for  a  third  time  returned. 

O'Rourke  yawned  nonchalantly,  suddenly  on  his  mettle; 
he  was  not  willing  to  let  them  see  that  he  cared. 

"Five  francs,"  he  thought,  arising;  "small  price  for  a 
night's  entertainment.  Sure,  I  got  the  worth  of  me  money, 
in  excitement." 

He  looked  at  the  clock;  to  his  amazement  the  hands  in- 
indicated  two  in  the  morning.  Now  the  room  was  half  de- 
serted, the  attendants  gaping  discreetly  behind  their  hands. 
A  few  earnest  devotees  still  clustered  about  the  table,  winning 
or  losing  in  a  blaze  of  febrile  haste. 

The  ball  clattered  hollowly;  the  tones  of  the  croupier  only 
were  the  same : 

"Onze!  Noir,  impair  et  manque!"  and  "Messieurs,  jaites 
vos  jeux!" — as  though  it  were  an  epitaph, — as  it  too  often  is. 

And  when  he  left  the  room,  O'Rourke  marked  that  tfce 
bearded  man  was  pushing  back  his  chair  and  arising. 

['71 


CHAPTER  III 

HE  DECIDES  THAT  BEGGARS  SHOULD  RIDE 

O'Rc-URKE  found  the  night  air  soft  and  balmy,  humid  but 
refreshing.  He  walked  with  great,  limb-stretching  strides, 
throwing  back  his  shoulders  and  expanding  his  chest  — 
bathing  his  lungs,  so  to  speak,  with  the  cleansing  atmosphere. 

His  way  led  him  straight  across  the  city,  a  walk  of  no 
slight  distance  to  his  lodgings;  but  he  made  a  detour  to  pro- 
long it,  to  give  the  exercise  an  opportunity  to  clear  his  brain 
and  steady  his  nerves  —  unstrung  as  they  were,  from  his 
recent  excitement,  as  from  the  action  of  an  opiate. 

It  was  later  than  he  began  to  think;  for  he  could  not  im- 
mediately believe  that  time  had  flown  so  rapidly  in  the  house 
of  Paz.  Only  the  almost  deserted  streets  in  which  his  foot- 
steps echoed  loud  and  lonely,  the  quietness  that  lay  upon  the 
city,  the  repose  of  the  gendarmes  on  the  corners,  brought 
home  to  him  the  wee  smallness  of  the  hour. 

He  was  not  sleepy  —  anything  but  that;  he  was  very  much 
awake  —  and  yet  he  was  dreaming,  holding  a  " post-mortem" 
(as  he  termed  it)  on  his  luck  and  misfortunes  of  the  night, 
and  planning  toward  his  future ;  or  rather,  he  was  striving  to 
solve  the  riddle  of  his  future,  drear  and  uncompromisingly 
blank  as  it  then  loomed,  to  his  imagination. 

For  the  present  —  it  came  to  him  as  a  distinct  shock  —  he 
was  exceedingly  hungry,  and,  through  his  own  folly,  found 
himself  without  the  wherewithal  to  satisfy  that  young  and 
healthy  appetite. 

[18] 


He  Decides  that  Beggars  Should  Ride 

But  he  told  himself  that  he,  an  old  campaigner  who  had 
known  keen  privation  in  his  time,  could  stave  off  starvation 
by  reefing  in  his  belt.  "A  light  stomach  makes  a  light  con- 
science," was  the  aphorism  from  which  he  was  seeking  conso- 
lation when  he  noticed  that  he  was  being  followed. 

Quick,  determined  footsteps  were  sounding  in  the  street 
behind  him. 

"Is  it  possible,"  he  inquired  aloud,  "that  me  friend  with 
the  Vandyke  beard  is  after  me,  with  his  nefarious  designs, 
now  ?  I've  half  a  mind  to  stop  and  let  him  interview  me." 

He  glanced  over  his  shoulder;  the  man  behind  was  passing 
under  a  light  about  a  block  distant;  O'Rourke  judged  that  he 
was  a  heavy,  bulky  man,  with  a  beard. 

"The  same!"  he  cried,  pleased  as  a  child  with  a  toy,  with 
the  strangeness  of  the  affair.  "  Faith,  now,  I'll  be  giving  him 
a  run  for  his  money." 

He  mended  his  pace,  lengthening  his  stride;  but  the  other 
proved  obstinate,  and  was  not  to  be  shaken  off.  For  some 
time  O'Rourke  could  tell  by  the  sound  that  the  distance  be- 
tween them  was  neither  increasing  nor  decreasing;  and  then 
he  began  to  puzzle  his  head  about  the  pursuer's  motive. 

The  man  had  dogged  two  men,  at  least,  besides  O'Rourke 
himself,  from  the  gambling  house;  and  each  had  been,  or 
had  seemed  to  be,  broken  in  fortune,  and  therefore  likely  to 
be  more  or  less  desperate,  and  ready  to  seize  upon  any  chance 
to  recoup. 

What  then  had  this  fellow  to  offer  ruined  gamesters? 
O'Rourke  wondered.  His  inquisitiveness  made  his  feet  to 
lag,  for  he  was  now  determined  to  find  out;  and  he  cast  about 
for  an  excuse  to  halt  altogether,  finding  it  in  the  half  of  a  cold 
cigar  upon  which  he  had  unconsciously  been  chewing. 

He  felt  in  his  pocket  for  a  match,  and  stopped  to  strike 

[19] 

,        tr. 


Terence  O'Rourke,  Gentleman  Adventurer 

it  under  one  of  the  gloomy  arches  of  the  Rue  de  Rivoli.  His 
man  came  up  rapidly.  O'Rourke  dallied  with  the  match, 
pretending  an  interest  in  the  odd  aspect  of  the  almost  deso- 
late street,  so  generally  populous. 

"Monsieur — " 

He  jumped,  by  premeditation,  and  looked  around.  The 
man  with  the  beard  stood  by  his  side,  breathing  heavily. 
O'Rourke  eyed  him  gravely. 

"The  top  of  the  morning  to  ye,  sir,"  he  said  courteously; 
"and  what  can  I  have  the  pleasure  of  doing  for  ye,  may  I 
ask?" 

The  other  recovered  his  breath  in  gasps,  begging  for  time 
with  an  uplifted,  expressive  hand.  He  bowed  ponderously; 
and  O'Rourke  made  him  a  graceful  leg,  his  eyes  twinkling 
with  amusement;  after  all  the  Irishman  was  no  more  than  a 
boy  at  heart,  fun-loving,  and  just  then  resolved  to  extract 
what  entertainment  he  might  from  the  Frenchman. 

"  Monsieur,  I  have  a  favor  to  ask  — " 

"A  thousand,  if  ye  will!  " 

The  man  was  quick-witted;  he  saw  that  he  was  being 
trifled  with,  and  expressed  his  resentment  by  the  gathering 
of  his  heavy  brows  and  a  significant  pause.  At  length,  how- 
ever," Monsieur  has  been  unfortunate,"  he  suggested  coldly. 

"In  what  way?"  demanded  O'Rourke,  on  his  dignity  in 
an  instant.  • 

"At  roulette,"  returned  the  other.  "I  presume  that  mon- 
sieur is  not  —  "  He  hesitated. 

"  Not  what,  if  ye  please  ?  " 

"  Rich,  let  us  say;  monsieur  feels  his  losses  of  to-night  — " 

"  He  does  ?  And  may  I  ask  how  monsieur  knows  so  mucb 
about  me  private  affairs?" 

"I  was  watching  — " 

[20] 


He  Decides  that  Beggars  Should  Ride 

"Ye  were!" 

The  other  flushed,  yet  persisted:  "Not  precisely.  One 
moment  —  I  will  explain  — " 

"Very  well,"  O'Rourke  consented  ominously. 

"  Perhaps  you  are  in  need  of  money  ?    Now,  I  am  — " 

He  got  no  further;  that  was  a  bald  impertinence  to  an 
O'Rourke,  even  if  to  a  penniless  one;  and  the  destitute  ad- 
venturer, made  thus  to  realize  how  desperately  he  was  in 
reality  in  need  of  money,  was  not  pleased. 

"That,"  he  broke  in  placidly,  "is  none  of  your  damned 
business!" 

"What!" 

A  deeper  shade  of  red  mantled  the  face  of  the  Frenchman. 
He  stepped  back,  but,  when  the  Irishman  would  have  passed 
on,  barred  the  way. 

"Will  monsieur  please  to  repeat  those  words?"  he  re- 
quested, with  ceremony. 

"  I  will,"  returned  O'Rourke  hotly;  and  obliged.  " Now," 
he  concluded,  "  ye  are  at  liberty  to  —  get  —  out  —  of  —  me 
• — way,  sir!" 

" But  —  you  have  insulted  me!" 

"Eh?"  O'Rourke  laughed  shortly.  "Impossible,"  he 
sneered. 

"Monsieur!  I  insist!  My  card!"  He  flourished  a  bit 
of  pasteboard  in  O'Rourke's  face.  "For  this  you  shall 
afford  me  satisfaction!" 

"Angry  little  one!"  jeered  O'Rourke.  Now  thoroughly 
aroused,  he  seized  the  card  and  tore  it  into  a  dozen  scraps, 
without  even  looking  at  it. 

"I'll  afford  ye  no  satisfaction,"  he  drawled  exasperatingly, 
"but  —  if  ye  don't  remove  yourself  from  me  path,  faith,  I'll 
step  on  ye!" 


Quivering  with  rage,  the  Frenchman  began  to  draw  off  his 
gloves.  O'Rourke  divined  what  he  purposed.  He  paled 
slightly,  and  his  mouth  became  a  hard,  straight  line  as  he 
warned  the  aggressor. 

"  Be  careful,  ye  whelp !    If  ye  strike  me,  I'll  —  " 

The  gloves  were  flicked  smartly  across  his  lips,  instantly 
demolishing  whatever  barriers  of  self-restraint  he  had  for  a 
check  upon  his  temper.  He  swore,  his  eyes  blazing,  and  his 
arm  shot  out.  The  Frenchman  received  the  full  impact  of 
the  blow  upon  his  cheek,  and  —  subsided. 

Standing  over  the  prostrate  body,  O'Rourke  glanced  up 
and  down  the  street;  it  seemed  very  still,  quite  dark,  almost 
deserted.  Only  upon  a  distant  corner  he  made  out  the 
figure  of  a  man  leaning  negligently  against  a  lamp-post ;  he 
might  prove  to  be  a  gendarme,  but,  so  far,  apparently,  his 
attention  had  not  been  attracted  to  the  affair. 

O'Rourke's  primal  impulse  was  to  pass  on,  and  leave  his 
adversary  to  his  fate;  but  the  retaliating  blow  had  cooled  his 
anger  by  several  degrees.  On  second  thought,  the  Irishman 
decided  to  play  the  good  Samaritan  —  which  was  egregious 
folly.  His  man  was  sitting  up,  by  then,  rubbing  ruefully  his 
cheek;  O'Rourke  gave  him  a  generous  hand  and  assisted  him 
to  his  feet. 

"I  trust,"  he  said,  "that  ye  are  not  severely  injured  — " 

"Canaille!"  rasped  the  Frenchman,  sullenly,  dusting  his 
coat;  and  he  drove  home  the  epithet  with  a  venomous  threat. 

O'Rourke  laughed  at  him. 

"Aha,"  he  cried,  "then  ye've  not  had  enough?  Do  I 
understand  that  ye  want  another  dose  of  the  same?" 

Silently  the  man  picked  up  his  hat  from  the  gutter,  knocked 
it  into  shape,  and  rubbed  it  against  his  sleeve  in  fatuous  effort 
to  restore  some  of  its  pristine  brilliancy. 

[22] 


He  Decides  that  Beggars  Should  Ride 

"If  ye  are  quite  through  with  me,"  continued  the  Irishman, 
"I'll  go  to  the  devil  in  me  own  way,  without  your  interfer- 
ence. And,  monsieur,  a  word  in  your  ear!  Attend  to  your 
own  affairs  in  the  future,  if  ye  would  avoid  — " 

The  man  with  the  beard  cursed  audibly,  gritted  his  teeth  and 
clinched  his  hands;  but  when  he  spoke  it  was  coolly  enough. 

"I  have  not  done  with  you,  canaille,"  he  said.  "You  will 
do  well,  indeed,  to  go  on,  for  I  intend  to  hand  you  over  to  a 
gendarme." 

"Thedivvleyesay!" 

O'Rourke  found  that  he  was  addressing  the  back  of  the 
man,  who  was  making  hastily  toward  the  figure  under  the 
distant  lamp-post.  "That  looks,"  he  debated,  "as  if  he 
meant  business!  Faith,  'tis  meself  that  will  take  his  advice 
—  this  once!" 

Accordingly  he  started  off  in  the  opposite  direction,  in 
leisurely  fashion;  he  was  not  inclined  to  believe  that  the 
Frenchman  would  really  carry  out  his  threat  of  arrest.  Never- 
theless, he  kept  his  ears  open,  nor  was  he  greatly  surprised 
when  presently,  as  he  debouched  into  the  Place  de  la  Con- 
corde, he  heard  mingled  with  shouts  the  sound  of  two  pairs  of 
running  feet  in  the  street  behind  him. 

"Why,  the  pup!"  he  exclaimed,  deeply  disgusted,  and 
stopped,  more  than  half  inclined  to  face  and  thrash  both  the 
representative  of  the  law  and  the  impertinent  civilian.  But 
he  quickly  abandoned  that  alluring  prospect;  it  was  entirely 
too  fraught  with  the  risk  of  spending  a  night  in  custody  — 
something  that  he  desired  not  in  the  least. 

By  then,  the  sounds  of  pursuit  were  nearing  rapidly.  Al- 
ready the  gendarme  had  caught  sight  of  his  figure,  and  was 
yelling  frantically  at  him  to  halt  and  surrender. 

"This  won't  do,  at  all,  at  all,"  reflected  O'Rourke,  and 


Terence  O'Rourke,  Gentleman  Adventurer 

himself  began  to  run,  cursing  his  hotheadedness  for  the  pre- 
dicament into  which  it  had  led  him. 

A  sleepy  cabby  woke  up,  startled  by  the  unusual  disturb- 
ance, and  added  his  yelps  to  those  of  the  policeman  and  the 
much-abused  Frenchman.  Others  joined  in  the  chorus. 
A  belated  street  gamin  shrieked  with  joy,  and  attached  him- 
self to  the  chase.  His  example  was  followed  by  others. 
O'Rourke  began  to  be  very,  very  regretful  for  his  precipi- 
tancy. 

He  doubled  and  turned  into  the  Champs  Elysees,  hounded 
by  a  growing,  howling  mob.  It  seemed  to  him  that  men 
sprang  from  the  earth  itself  to  help  run  him  down:  and  the 
sensation  was  most  unpleasant.  He  began  to  sprint  madly, 
his  Inverness  flapping  behind  him  like  the  wings  of  some 
huge,  misshapen  bird  of  night.  He  dug  elbows  in  ribs, 
clenched  his  teeth,  and  threw  back  his  head,  careful  to  keep 
as  much  as  possible  in  the  shadows. 

And  the  mob  grew,  whooping  joyously  with  interest;  from 
their  cries  it  seemed  that  they  considered  O'Rourke  an  escap- 
ing criminal  of  note. 

The  Irishman  kept  himself  ever  on  the  alert  for  some 
chance  of  escape — any  subterfuge  to  throw  the  pursuit  off  his 
track;  but  none  appeared.  He  realized  that  he  was  gaining 
by  sheer  fleetness  of  foot,  but  not  for  a  moment  did  he  imagine 
that  by  swiftness  he  might  distance  the  mob.  For  a  rabble 
is  always  fresh,  never  tiring;  the  places  of  those  who  drop  out, 
exhausted  and  breathless,  are  instantly  filled  by  fresh  and 
willing  recruits.  And  in  the  end  the  mob  gets  at  the  throat 
of  its  quarry  —  if  the  running  be  in  the  open. 

O'Rourke  knew  this  entirely  too  well  for  the  peace  of  his 
own  mind;  therefore,  he  grasped  avidly  at  the  first  chance 
that  presented  itself,  heedless  of  its  consequences. 


He  Decides  that  Beggars  Should  Ride 

Drawn  up  at  the  curb,  a  fiacre  stood  with  open  door.  He 
could  see  the  driver  turning  on  the  box  to  discover  the  cause 
of  the  uproar.  That  was  good,  O'Rourke  considered;  the 
man,  then,  was  wide  awake. 

He  reached  the  vehicle  and  jumped  upon  the  step,  shouting 
to  the  driver  the  first  address  which  entered  his  head : 

' '  To  the  Gare  du  Nord !    At  once !    With  haste ! ' ' 

Immediately  the  fiacre  was  in  motion;  O'Rourke  expe- 
rienced some  difficulty  in  drawing  himself  in  and  closing  the 
door  because  of  the  rapidity  of  the  pace.  In  another  mo- 
ment the  horse  was  leaping  forward  furiously,  under  the 
sting  of  a  merciless  lash. 

"Bless  the  intelligent  man!"  muttered  O'Rourke  fervently. 
He  felt  that  he  could  have  kissed  the  driver  for  his  instant 
obedience.  But  at  once  he  was  crushed  by  a  paralyzing 
thought;  how,  in  Heaven's  name,  was  he  to  pay  the  hire  of 
the  vehicle  ? 

He  cursed  his  luck,  and  attempted  to  seat  himself  —  gasped 
with  astonishment,  and  incontinently  stood  up  again,  bump- 
ing his  head  against  the  roof. 

''Madame!"  he  cried  astounded,  into  the  obscurity.  "I 
beg-" 

The  reply  was  instant  and  encouraging. 

"My  pardon  is  granted,  monsieur.  Will  monsieur  be 
pleased  to  resume  his  seat?" 

For  the  other  occupant  of  the  fiacre  was  —  a  woman. 


[25] 


CHAPTER  TV 
HE  DOES  RIDE;  AND  WITH  HIS  FATE 

"THE  Saints,"  prayed  Terence  devoutly,  "preserve us  all!" 

Immediately  he  felt  himself  stricken  as  with  a  dumbness 
—  fairly  stunned.  The  woman  upon  whose  privacy  he  had 
so  unceremoniously  intruded,  composedly  and  with  a  pretty 
grace  made  a  place  for  him  by  her  side;  and  he,  obedient,  but 
speechless,  collapsed  into  the  seat. 

It  came  to  him  that  this  must  be  an  exceptionally  wonderful 
manner  of  woman,  who  could  accept  his  rude  invasion  with 
such  unruffled  calmness;  and  he  had  noted  that  her  voice  was 
not  only  absolutely  unmoved,  but  most  marvelously  sweet  to 
hear. 

The  -fiacre  whirled  on  as  though  the  devil  himself  were  at 
the  whip  (thought  O'Rourke).  It  rocked  from  side  to  side, 
perilously  upon  one  or  two  or  three  wheels  —  never  safely 
upon  four;  it  sheered  about  corners,  scraping  the  curbs 
barely. 

Conversation  became  obviously  impossible  under  such 
circumstances;  O'Rourke  recognized  the  necessity  of  ex- 
planations, but  found  that  he  must  perforce  be  silent;  and, 
for  that  matter,  he  was  rather  grateful  for  the  chance  to  get 
his  breath  and  collect  his  scattered  wits. 

So  he  abandoned  as  hopeless  the  task  of  framing  up  some 
plausible  excuse  for  his  conduct,  as  well  as  that  of  accounting 
to  himself  for  the  extreme  placidity  with  which  his  fair  neigh- 
bor had  welcomed  him;  and,  consistently  with  his  character, 

[26] 


He  Does  Ride;  and  with  his  Fate 


he  at  once  became  the  more  intensely  occupied  with  an  at- 
tempt to  discover  the  identity  of  the  woman. 

But  he  was  baffled  in  that.  The  street  lamps,  reeling  like 
telegraph  poles  past  the  windows  of  a  moving  train,  illumi- 
nated but  fitfully  the  interior  of  the  fiacre,  and  he  could  see 
but  little,  strain  his  eyes  as  he  might. 

His  companion,  the  woman  —  or  girl,  rather;  for  the  youth- 
fulness  of  her  seemed  impressed  upon  the  impetuous  and 
impressionable  Irishman  by  his  mere  propinquity  with  her 
—  made  no  effort,  for  the  time  being,  to  break  the  silence. 
O'Rourke  was  moved  to  marvel  much  thereat.  Was  she 
accustomed  to  such  nocturnal  escapades  that  she  could  take 
them  as  a  matter  of  course?  Or  was  she  strangely  lacking 
that  birthright  of  her  sex  —  the  curiosity  of  the  eternal  fem- 
inine ? 

She  nestled  closely  in  her  corner,  with  her  head  slightly 
averted,  gazing  out  through  the  window.  Evidently  she  was 
in  evening  dress,  and  that  of  the  richest ;  a  light  opera  cloak 
of  some  shimmering  fabric  wrapped  soft  folds  about  her. 
Her  arms,  gloved  in  white,  were  extended  languidly  before 
her,  while  her  hands  —  very  bewitchingly  small,  O'Rourke 
considered  them  —  lay  clasped  in  her  lap.  Beneath  the  edge 
of  the  cloak  a  silken  slipper  showed,  pressing  firmly  upon  the 
floor  as  a  brace  against  the  sudden  lurchings  of  the  fiacre  — 
and  surely  the  foot  therein  was  preposterously  tiny ! 

By  now  the  cries  of  the  rabble  had  died  in  the  distance,  and 
the  speed  of  the  vehicle  slackened;  presently  it  was  bowling 
over  a  broad,  brightly  lighted  boulevard  at  quite  a  respectable 
pace;  and  within  the  vehicle  the  darkness  became  less  opaque. 

The  Irishman  boldly  followed  up  his  inspection;  but  the 
woman  was  not  aware  of  it  —  or,  if  she  were,  disregarded  it, 
or  —  again  —  was  not  ill-pleased.  And  truly  that  admira- 

[27] 


Terence  O'Rourke,  Gentleman  Adventurer 

tion  which  glowed  within  O'Rourke's  eyes  was  not  unpro- 
voked. 

Against  the  dark  background  her  profile  stood  in  clear, 
ivory-like  relief,  clean  cut  and  distinguished  as  a  cameo  — 
and  perilously  beautiful;  her  full  lips  were  parted  in  the 
slightest  of  smiles,  her  eyes  were  deep,  warm-shadows,  the 
massed  waves  of  her  hair  uncovered,  exquisitely  coiffured  .  .  . 
"Faith!"  sighed  the  Irishman.  "'Tis  a  great  lady  she  is, 
and  I  ..."  He  was,  notwithstanding  his  self-depreciation, 
conscious  of  considerable  satisfaction  in  the  knowledge  that 
he  was  attired  properly,  as  a  gentleman;  but,  "Oh,  Lord!" 
he  groaned  in  spirit.  "What  will  she  be  doing  with  me  when 
she  finds  me  out?" 

For  it  was  appealing  to  him  as  very  delightful  —  this  ad- 
venture upon  which  he  had  stumbled  —  even  though  he  had 
not  a  single  sou  to  give  the  driver.  That  O'Rourke  was 
young  has  been  mentioned;  he  was  also  ardent  and  gallant; 
and  it  was  to  his  blandishments  of  tongue  that  he  was  trusting 
to  extricate  him  gracefully  from  his  predicament. 

But  —  did  he  honestly  desire  to  be  extricated  ?  Not  —  he 
answered  himself  with  suspicious  instantaneousness  —  if  it 
was  to  deprive  him  of  the  charming  companionship  which 
was  his,  for  the  moment;  not  if  it  left  him  still  hungry  for  a 
peep  within  the  cloak  of  mystery  that  shrouded  the  affair. 

He  made  a  closer  inventory  of  the  fiacre;  it  was  rather 
elegant  in  appointment  —  no  mere  public  conveyance,  that 
is  to  be  picked  up  on  any  corner;  all  of  which  confirmed 
his  suspicions  that  this  was  a  woman  of  rank  and  pedigree. 

And  when  he  ventured  a  more  timid  glance,  sideways,  it 
was  to  find  her  eying  him  with  an  inscrutable  amusement. 

"Mademoiselle,"  he  faltered  clumsily,  "I  —  I.  —  faith! 
if  ye'U  but  pardon  nue  again  — ' 

[28] 


He  Does  Ride;  and  with  his  Fate 

She  looked  away  at  once  —  perhaps  to  ignore  his  eyes, 
which  were  pleading  his  cause  far  more  eloquently  than  were 
his  lips. 

"Monsieur,"  she  pronounced  graciously,  "is  impetuous; 
but  possibly  that  is  no  great  fault." 

"  But  —  but,  indeed,  I  must  apologize  — ': 

"Surely  that  is  not  necessary,  monsieur;  it  is  understood." 
She  paused.  "You  were  long  in  coming,  indeed;  I  had 
grown  quite  weary  with  waiting.  But  since  you  did  arrive, 
eventually,  and  in  time,  all  is  well  —  let  us  hope.  As  for  the 
delay,  that  was  the  fault  of  Monsieur  Chambret  —  not 
yours." 

O'Rourke  stared  almost  rudely,  transfixed  with  amazement, 
incapable  of  understanding  a  single  word.  What  did  she 
mean,  anyway  ? 

"Me  soul!"  he  whispered  to  himself.  "Am  I  in  Paris  of 
to-day  —  of  me  day  —  or  is  this  the  Paris  of  Dumas  and  of 
Balzac?" 

But  he  received  no  direct  answer;  the  girl  waited  a  moment, 
then,  since  he  did  not  reply,  proceeded,  laughing  lightly. 

"At  first,  I'll  confess,  the  sudden  burst  of  noise  in  the  street 
alarmed  me,  monsieur.  And  when  you  appeared  at  the  door, 
I  half  fancied  you  the  wrong  person  —  perhaps  a  criminal 
fleeing  from  the  gendarmes." 

"And  what  reassured  ye,  mademoiselle?"  he  stammered 
blankly. 

"The  password,  of  course;  that  set  all  right." 

"The  password!"  he  echoed  stupidly. 

"Naturally;  yes,  monsieur!"  She  elevated  her  brows  in 
delicate  inquiry.  "'To  the  Gare  du  Nord,'  you  cried;  and 
by  that  I  knew  at  once  that  you  were  sent  by  Monsieur 
Chambret." 

[29! 


Terence  O'Rourke,  Gentleman  Adventurer 

Beauty  and  mystery  combined  were  befuddling  the  Irish- 
man sadly;  when  she  ceased,  looking  to  him  for  an  answer, 
'  he  strove  to  recall  her  words. 

"Monsieur  Chambret?"  he  iterated  vaguely.  Then,  to 
himself,  in  a  flash  of  comprehension:  "The  password,  'To 
'  theGareduNord'!" 

"Mais  oui!"  she  cried,  impatiently  tapping  the  floor  with 
the  little  slipper.  " Chambret  —  who  else?  Oh!"  She 
sat  forward  abruptly,  her  eyes  wide  with  dismay.  "You 
must  be  from  Monsieur  Chambret  ?  There  cannot  have  been 
any  mistake?" 

For  a  second  O'Rourke  was  tempted  to  try  to  brazen  it 
out;  to  lie,  to  invent,  to  make  her  believe  him  indeed  from 
this  "Monsieur  Chambret."  But  to  his  credit  be  it,  the 
thought  was  no  sooner  conceived  than  abandoned.  Some- 
how, he  felt  that  he  might  not  lie  to  this  woman  and  retain 
his  self-respect. 

Not  that  alone,  but  now  that  he  could  see  more  clearly  her 
eyes,  he  fancied  that  he  perceived  evidences  of  mental  an- 
guish in  their  sweet  depths;  she  seemed  to  have  been  counting 
dearly  on  his  being  the  man  she  had  expected.  No  —  he 
must  be  frank  with  her. 

"I  fear,"  he  admitted  sadly,  "that  there  is  a  mistake, 
mademoiselle.  In  truth,  I'm  not  from  your  friend;  ye  were 
right  when  ye  fancied  me  a  fugitive.  I  ivas  running  away  — 
to  avoid  arrest  for  an  offense  that  was  not  wholly  mine:  I 
had  been  strongly  provoked.  I  saw  the  fiacre,  supposed  it 
empty,  of  course,  jumped  in  ...  Ye  understand?  Believe 
me,  I  sincerely  regret  deceiving  ye,  mademoiselle,  even  un- 
intentionally." 

He  waited,  but  she  made  no  answer;  she  had  drawn  away 
from  him  as  far  as  the  fiacre  would  permit,  and  now  sat 

[30] 


He  Does  Ride;  and  with  his  Fate 

watching  his  face  with  an  expression  which  he  failed  to 
fathom.  It  was  not  of  anger,  he  knew  instinctively;  it  was 
no  fear  of  him,  nor  yet  acute  disappointment;  if  anything,  he 
could  have  fancied  her  look  one  informed  with  a  subtle 
speculation,  a  mental  calculation.  But  as  to  what  ? 

That  was  the  stumbling-block.    He  gave  it  up. 

"If  I  can  be  of  any  service  in  return  — ?"  he  floundered 
in  his  desperation.  "  But  I  must  again  humbly  sue  for  par- 
don, mademoiselle.  I  will  no  longer  — " 

The  man's  accustomed  glibness  of  tongue  seemed  to  have 
forsaken  him  most  inopportunely;  he  saw  that  it  was  a  thank- 
less task  to  try  to  set  himself  right.  What  cared  she  for  his 
protestations,  his  apologies  ? 

And  in  such  case  he  could  do  no  more  than  act  —  get  out 
of  her  sight,  leave  her  to  her  disappointment.  He  reached 
toward  the  trap  in  the  roof,  intending  to  attract  the  driver's 
attention  and  alight. 

But  it  appeared  that  this  was  not  a  night  upon  which  even 
a  headstrong  O'Rourke  could  carry  to  a  successful  conclusion 
any  particular  one  of  his  determinations.  For,  as  he  started 
up,  the  girl  stirred,  and  put  a  hand  upon  his  arm,  with  a  ges- 
ture that  was  almost  an  appeal. 

He  halted,  looking  down. 

"One  moment,  monsieur,"  she  begged.  "I  —  I  —  per- 
haps you  might  be  willing  to — "  She  hesitated,  torn  with 
doubts  of  the  man,  total  stranger  that  he  was  to  her. 

"To  make  amends?"  he  broke  in  eagerly.  "To  be  of 
service  to  ye,  mademoiselle  ?  If  I  can,  command  me  —  to 
the  uttermost — " 

"Then  . . ."  She  sat  back  again,  but  half  satisfied  that  she 
was  acting  wisely;  her  eyes  narrowed  as  she  pondered  him; 
O'Rourke  felt  that  her  gaze  pierced  him  through  and  through. 


Terence  O'Rourke,  Gentleman  Adventurer 

She  frowned  in  her  perplexity  —  and  was  thereby  the  more 
enchanting. 

"Thank  you,"  she  concluded,  at  length.  "Possibly  — 
who  can  tell  ?  —  you  may  serve  me  as  well  as  he  whom  I  had 
expected." 

"Only  too  gladly,  mademoiselle!"  he  cried  with  unfeigned 
enthusiasm. 

She  nodded  affirmatively,  patting  her  lips  with  her  fan  — 
lost  upon  the  instant  in  meditation,  doubting,  yet  half  con- 
vinced of  the  wiseness  of  her  course. 

O'Rourke  waited  uneasily,  afire  with  impatience,  fearful 
lest  she  should  change  her  mind.  Eventually,  she  mused 
aloud  —  more  to  herself  than  to  the  stranger. 

"You  are  honest,  I  believe,  monsieur,"  said  she  softly; 
" you  would  not  lie  to  me.  Who  knows?  You  might  prove 
the  very  man  we  need,  and  —  and,  oh,  monsieur,  our  need 
is  great!" 

"But  try  me!"  he  pleaded  abjectly. 

"Thank  you,  monsieur  —  I  will,"  she  told  him,  a  smile 
lightening  the  gravity  of  her  mood. 

And  the  fiacre  came  to  a  halt. 


•I  32] 


CHAPTER  V 

HE  ENGAGES  BOTH  HIS  WORD  AND  SWORD 

"OUR  destination,  monsieur,"  the  girl  indicated  briefly, 
with  a  dainty  little  nod  of  her  head. 

Half  stupefied,  the  Irishman  managed  to  get  himself  — 
somehow  —  out  of  the  vehicle.  Wholly  fascinated,  he  made 
haste  to  turn  and  assist  the  woman  to  alight;  for  a  moment 
her  gloved  hand  rested  in  his  broad  palm  —  her  hand,  warm, 
soft,  fragile  .  .  .  !  But,  almost  immediately,  it  was  gone; 
O'Rourke  found  himself  bowing  reverently,  and,  he  felt, 
idiotically,  over  space.  He  recovered  himself,  and  followed 
the  girl,  his  eyes  aglow  with  a  new,  clear  light. 

Their  fiacre  had  halted  before  a  certain  impressive  man- 
sion on  a  broad  boulevard  —  a  Iwtel  familiar  to  the  Irishmam 
in  a  way,  and  yet  nameless  to  him.  Rather  than  mansion, 
the  building  might  be  termed  a  palace,  so  huge,  so  impressive 
it  bulked  in  the  night.  Seemingly  a  fete  of  some  sort  was  in 
progress  within;  the  windows  shone  with  soft  radiance,  faint 
strains  of  music  filtered  through  the  open  entrance,  at  either 
side  of  which  stood  stolid  servants  in  gorgeous  livery  after 
the  English  fashion. 

From  the  doors,  down  the  steps  to  the  curb,  ran  a  carpet 
under  an  awning.  The  girl  tripped  nonchalantly  up  the 
steps,  as  one  knowing  well  the  place,  and  gave  a  whispered 
word  or  two  coldly  to  a  footman  who  bowed  with  a  respect 
which  struck  the  Irishman  as  exaggerated. 

They  passed  through  an  elaborate  vestibule  banked  with 

[33] 


Terence  O'Rourke,  Gentleman  Adventurer 

plants,  its  atmosphere  heady  with  the  fragrance  of  flowers, 
and  so  into  a  great  hallway  where  other  servants  relieved  the 
newcomers  of  their  wraps. 

Before  them  a  doorway  arched,  giving  upon  a  ballroom, 
whence  a  flood  of  sound  leaped  out  to  greet  them :  laughter  of 
women  and  the  heavier  voices  of  men;  scraping  of  fiddles  and 
of  feet  in  time  to  the  music;  the  swish  of  skirts,  the  blare  of  a 
French  horn. 

Mademoiselle  had  accepted  the  arm  of  the  Irishman;  they 
moved  toward  the  ballroom,  but  before  entering  she  turned 
toward  him,  speaking  confidentially,  yet  with  an  assumption 
of  lightness. 

"You  are  to  converse  with  me,  monsieur,  lightly,  if  you 
please,  as  though  we  were  lifelong  friends.  I  shall  chatter  — 
oh,  positively !  —  and  you  must  answer  me  in  kind.  It  —  it 
is  essential,  monsieur." 

He  bowed,  attempting  an  easy  smile,  which  failed  utterly; 
for  a  regally  attired  personage  at  the  doorway  demanded  the 
honor  of  announcing  the  late  guests.  And  O'Rourke  had 
not  the  least  clew  to  his  mademoiselle's  identity !  He  colored, 
stammered,  hating  the  servant  rabidly  for  what  he  considered 
his  cold,  suspicious  eye. 

Yet  he  need  not  have  shown  confusion,  had  he  but  guessed. 
He  managed  to  mouthe  his  name  —  " Colonel  O'Rourke"  — 
and  the  servant  turned  to  the  ballroom,  raising  a  stentorian 
voice : 

"Madame  la  Princess  de  Grandlieu!    Monsieur — " 

His  own  name  followed,  but  was  lost  to  O'Rourke  in  the 
thunder  of  his  companion's  title.  And  the  chateaux  of 
romance  which  he  had  been  busy  erecting  en  Espagne  fell, 
crashing  about  his  astounded  ears. 

A  princess!  And,  if  that  did  not  place  "mademoiselle" 

[34] 


II e  Engages  both  his  Word  and  Sword 

far  beyond  his  reach  —  he,  a  mere  Irish  adventurer!  —  she 
was  also  "madame"  —  married! 

"Monsieur!"  the  voice  of  the  woman  came  to  his  ears 
through  the  daze  of  his  reverie;  and  it  was  a-thrill  with  dis- 
may. "Monsieur,  for  the  love  of  Heaven  do  not  look  so 
wrathful!  You  —  why,  you  are  ruining  our  play;  you  must, 
must  pay  attention  to  me  — " 

With  an  effort  he  contrived  to  gain  some  control  of  his 
emotions;  he  schooled  himself  to  bend  an  attentive  ear  to- 
wards the  woman,  and  to  smile  lightly  the  while  they  chatted 
of  inconsequential  matters,  slowly  threading  a  way  down  the 
length  of  the  salon,  through  a  whirling  maze  of  dancing 
couples:  all  of  which  floated  vaguely  before  O'Rourke's  eyes, 
a  blur  of  women's  gleaming,  rounded  shoulders,  of  coruscant 
jewels  and  fugitive  flashes  of  color,  all  spotted  with  the  severe 
black-and-white  costumes  of  men.  They  ran  the  gantlet  of  a 
thousand  pairs  of  curious  eyes,  whose  searching  and  imper- 
tinent scrutiny  O'Rourke  keenly  felt,  and  as  keenly  longed  to 
return. 

They  were  making,  he  found,  for  the  far  end  of  the  room  — 
towards  a  wall  of  glass  through  which  peeped  green,  growing 
plants.  And  there,  in  the  conservatory,  the  princess  pres- 
ently left  the  adventurer. 

"You  will  await  me  here,"  she  instructed  him,  "that  I  may 
know  where  to  find  you  when  the  time  comes.  In  ten  min- 
utes, then,  Colonel  O'Rourke!" 

She  smiled  graciously.  He  was  gripping  himself  strongly, 
in  order  that  he  might  answer  her  with  some  semblance  of 
coherency;  and  he  blushed  in  his  embarrassment,  finding 
himself  slow  to  recover  —  very  boyish  looking,  young  and 
handsome. 

Madame  la  Princesse  turned  away,  smiling  inscrutably, 

[35] 


Terence  O'Rourke,  Gentleman  Adventurer 

and  left  him.  He  strolled  about  for  a  few  moments,  then 
seated  himself  upon  a  bench  in  full  view  of  the  room  he  had 
just  quitted.  For  ten  long  minutes  he  waited,  as  tranquilly 
as  he  might;  which  is  as  much  as  to  say  that  he  was  restless  to 
the  extreme  and  vibrant  with  curiosity. 

For  fifteen  minutes  or  so  longer  he  wriggled  on  the  seat  of 
uncertainty,  wondering  if  he  was  being  played  with,  —  made 
a  fool  of.  A  thought  struck  him  like  a  shot :  was  she  detaining 
him  while  sending  for  the  police  ? 

The  essential  idiocy  of  that  conjecture  became  evident 
within  a  few  minutes.  The  princess  was  but  proving  her 
inborn,  feminine  method  of  measuring  tune;  she  returned 
at  last  —  flushed  and  breathless,  more  bewitching  than  he 
had  imagined  her,  who  had  not  ere  this  seen  her  in  a  good 
light. 

"Come,  Colonel  O'Rourke,  if  you  please." 

He  was  instantly  at  her  side,  offering  his  arm.  She  seemed 
to  hesitate  the  merest  fraction  of  a  second,  then  lightly  placed 
her  fingers  upon  his  sleeve,  where  they  rested,  flower-like. 
The  man  gazed  upon  them  with  all  his  soul  in  his  eyes.  His 
hand  trembled  to  seize  them  —  oh,  already  he  was  far  gone ! 
But  the  manner  of  Madame  la  Princesse  kept  him  within 
bounds;  its  temperature  was  perceptibly  lower  than  formerly. 

For  her  part,  she  was  choosing  to  ignore  what  he  could  not 
conceal  —  the  devotion  which  her  personality  had  so  sud- 
denly inspired  in  the  breast  of  the  young  Irishman. 

They  re-entered  the  ballroom;  now  it  was  half  deserted, 
and  a  facile  way  lay  open  to  them  on  the  floor  that  had 
been  so  crowded. 

By  an  almost  imperceptible  pressure  upon  his  arm  the 
princess  guided  him  across  the  room,  and  into  a  salon  that 
was  quite  deserted. 

[36] 


He  Engages  both  his  Word  and  Sword 

"It  is  late,"  she  said,  half  in  explanation,  half  to  keep  the 
man's  mind  on  matters  other  than  herself;  "  in  a  quarter  of  an 
hour  the  fete  will  be  a  thing  of  the  past,  monsieur." 

"And  the  guests  all  departed  on  their  various  ways,"  he 
said  —  merely  to  make  talk. 

She  favored  him  with  a  sidelong  glance.  "Not  all,"  she 
returned,  with  a  meaning  which  he  failed  to  grasp,  and 
stopped  before  a  closed  door,  of  which  she  handed  him  the 
key.  He  opened  in  silence,  and  t^iey  passed  into  a  large 
room  and  gloomy,  furnished  rather  elaborately  as  a  library 
and  study,  its  walls  lined  with  shelves  of  books. 

In  the  center  of  the  room  stood  a  great  desk  of  mahogany, 
upon  which  rested  a  drop-light  writh  a  green  shade  that 
flooded  the  desk  itself  with  yellow  radiance,  leaving  the  rest 
of  the  apartment  in  shadow. 

The  princess  marched  with  determination  to  the  farther 
side  of  the  desk  and  there  seated  herself. 

"The  door,  monsieur,"  she  said  imperiously:  "you  will 
lock  it." 

Wondering,  he  did  her  bidding;  then  stood  with  his  back  to 
it,  instinctively  in  the  pose  of  an  orderly  awaiting  the  com- 
mand of  a  superior  officer  —  shoulders  back,  head  up,  eyes 
level,  feet  together,  hands  at  sides. 

She  noted  the  attitude,  and  relented  a  trifle  from  her  frigid 
mood.  "  That  Colonel  O'Rourke  is  a  soldier  is  self-evident," 
she  said.  "  Be  seated,  monsieur,"  —  motioning  to  a  chair 
on  the  opposite  side  of  the  desk. 

Again  he  obeyed  in  silence;  for,  in  truth,  he  feared  to  trust 
his  tongue. 

The  woman  lowered  her  lashes,  drawing  off  her  gloves 
slowly,  as  though  lost  in  deepest  meditation.  As  a  matter  of 
fact  she  was  planning  her  campaign  for  the  subjugating  of 

[37] 


Terence  O'Rourke,  Gentleman  Adventurer 

this  adventurer;  at  present,  he  was  impossible  —  too  earnest, 
too  willing  to  serve,  too  fervent  for  comfort. 

For  a  time  she  did  not  speak,  and  the  room  was  very 
quiet.  If  she  watched  him,  O'Rourke  was  unable  to  make 
certain  of  it;  for  the  upper  half  of  her  face  was  in  deep 
shadow.  Only  her  arms,  bared,  showed  very  white  and 
rounded;  O'Rourke  might  not  keep  his  gaze  from 
them. 

But  she  found  a  way  to  bring  him  to  his  senses.  Suddenly 
she  leaned  forward,  and  turned  the  shade  of  the  lamp  so  that 
its  glare  fell  full  upon  the  Irishman's  face;  her  gaze  then  be- 
came direct;  and,  resting  her  elbows  upon  the  table,  lacing 
her  fingers  and  cradling  her  chin  upon  the  backs  of  her  hands, 
the  girl  boldly  challenged  him. 

"Colonel  O'Rourke,"  she  said  deliberately  —  at  once  to 
the  point;  "you  are  to  consider  that  this  is  a  matter  of  busi- 
ness, purely." 

He  flushed,  drew  himself  bolt  upright. 

"  Pardon !"  he  murmured  stiffly. 

"Granted,  monsieur,"  she  replied  briskly.  "And  now, 
before  we  implicate  ourselves,  let  us  become  acquainted. 
You,  I  already  know,  I  believe." 

"Yes,  madame?" 

"There  was  a  man  of  whom  I  have  heard,  of  the  name  of 
O'Rourke,  who  served  as  a  colonel  in  the  Foreign  Legion  in 
the  Soudan,  for  a  number  of  years." 

"The  same,  madame,"  he  said  —  not  without  a  touch  of 
pride  in  his  tones. 

"He  received  the  decoration  of  the  Legion  of  Honor,  I 
believe  ?  For  gallantry  ? ' ' 

"They  called  it  such,  madame." 

He  turned  aside  the  lapel  of  his  coal;  she  nodded,  her  eyes 

[33] 


He  Engages  both  his  Word  and  Sword 

brightening  as  she  glimpsed  the  scrap  of  ribbon  and  the  pen- 
dent silver  star. 

"I  begin  to  think  that  chance  has  been  very  kind  to  me, 
Colonel  O'Rourke,"  she  said,  less  coolly. 

"Possibly,  madame." 

"You  have  seen  other  service,  monsieur?" 

"Yes—" 

"For  'Cuba  Libre,'  I  believe?" 

"  But  the  list  is  a  long  one,"  he  expostulated  laughingly. 

"For  so  young  a  man  —  so  gallant  a  soldier!" 

"Oh,  madame!"  he  deprecated. 

"You  are,"  she  changed  the  subject,  "pledged  to  no  cause, 
monsieur?" 

"To  yours  alone,  madame." 

She  thanked  him  with  a  glance.  He  was  amply  rewarded. 
After  an  instant  of  hesitation,  she  proceeded  bluntly: 

"You,  I  presume,  know  who  I  am?" 

"Madame  la  Princesse  — "  he  began. 

"I  do  not  mean  that,"  she  interrupted;  "but  before  my 
marriage  — ?" 

"No—  "  he  dubitated. 

This  seemed  to  gratify  her. 

"That  is  good,  then  —  you  do  not  know  me,  really,"  she 
concluded.  "You  do  not  even  know  where  you  are?" 

"No  more  than  in  Paris,"  he  laughed. 

"Oh,  that  is  good,  indeed!  Then  I  may  talk  freely  — 
although  I  must  ask  that  you  consider  every  word  confiden- 
tial. I  rely  upon  your  honor  — " 

"Believe  me,  ye  may." 

"  Then  —  to  business." 

Heretofore  she  had  been  studying  nis  features  intently; 
what  character  she  had  read  therein  must  have  been  reassur- 

[39] 


Terence  O'Rourke,  Gentleman  Adventurer 

ing  to  the  girl,  for  at  once  she  discarded  the  constraint  which 
she  had  imposed  upon  their  conversation,  and  plunged  in 
medias  res. 

"Colonel  O'Rourke,"  she  began  slowly,  as  if  choosing 
each  phrase  with  care,  "I  have  a  brother  —  a  very  young 
man :  younger  even  than  I.  His  wealth  is  great,  and  he  is  — 
very  regrettably  weak,  easily  influenced  by  others,  wild,  wil- 
ful, impatient  of  restraint,  dissipated.  His  associates  are 
not  such  as  one  might  wish.  But  let  that  pass.  You  com- 
prehend?" 

"Perfectly,  madame." 

"  Some  time  ago  —  recently,  in  fact  —  he  conceived  a  hare- 
brained scheme,  a  mad  adventure  —  I  cannot  tell  you  how 
insane !  I  believe  it  fraught  with  the  gravest  danger  to  him, 
monsieur.  I  have  sought  to  dissuade  him,  to  no  effect.  At 
the  same  time  I  discovered  by  accident  that  it  would  further 
the  interests  of  —  certain  of  his  companions  to  have  him  out 
of  the  way  —  dead,  in  fact.  I  questioned  my  brother  closely; 
he  admitted,  in  the  end,  that  it  was  proposed  to  him  —  this 
scheme  —  by  those  same  persons.  I  made  inquiries,  secretly, 
and  satisfied  myself  that  not  one  of  my  brother's  so-called 
friends  was  anything  more  or  less  than  a  parasite.  For  years 
they  have  been  bleeding  him  systematically,  for  their  own 
pockets.  And  now,  not  content  with  what  they  have  stolen 
from  .him,  they  want  his  fortune  in  toto.  In  short,  he  con- 
sorts with  sycophants  of  the  most  servile,  treacherous  type." 

She  paused,  drawing  her  long  white  gloves  thoughtfully 
through  her  hands,  eying  O'Rourke  abstractedly  beneath 
her  level  brows;  the  Irishman's  gaze  assured  her  of  his  sym- 
pathy. 

"Proceed,  madame,"  he  said  gently. 

"To-night,  monsieur  —  this  morning,  rather — "  she 

[40] 


He  Engages  both  his  Word  and  Sword 

smiled  —  "my  brother  gives  this  rout  to  cover  a  conference 
with  the  instigators  of  the  scheme.  It  —  it  must  certainly  be 
of  an  unlawful  nature,  monsieur,  else  they  would  not  meet  so 
secretly,  with  such  caution.  Even  now  certain  of  the  guests 
are  assembled  in  another  room  of  this,  my  brother's  house, 
conspiring  with  him.  To-morrow,  possibly  —  in  a  few  days 
at  the  latest  —  my  brother  will  start  upon  this —  this  expedi- 
tion, let  us  call  it.  For  my  part  I  cannot  believe  that  he  will 
return  alive.  I  fear  for  him  —  fear  greatly.  But  I  have  ob- 
tained his  consent  to  something  for  which  I  have  fought  ever 
since  I  found  that  he  would  not  give  up  his  project;  he  has 
agreed  to  take  with  him  one  man,  whom  I  am  to  select,  to 
give  him  high  place  in  his  councils,  and  —  what  is  more  im- 
portant —  to  keep  his  identity  as  my  agent  a  secret  from  the 
other  parties  interested. 

"I  had  but  twelve  hours  to  find  the  man  I  needed.  He 
must  be  a  soldier,  courageous,  loyal,  capable  of  leading  men. 
I  knew  no  such  man.  I  consulted  with  the  one  being  in  the 
world  whom  I  can  trust  —  a  family  friend  of  long  standing, 
one  Monsieur  Chambret.  I  —  I  —  monsieur,  I  cannot 
trust  my  husband;  he  is  allied  with  these  false  friends  of  my 
brother!" 

O'Rourke  started,  afire  with  generous  indignation;  she 
cautioned  him  to  silence  with  a  gesture. 

"  One  moment.  I  am  not  through,  if  you  please. . .  .  Mon- 
sieur Chambret  was  equally  at  a  loss  for  a  suitable  man.  He 
did  what  he  could.  This  evening  he  came  to  me,  offering  a 
last  hope,  saying  that  he  knew  of  a  place  where  men  of  spirit 
who  were  not  overly  prosperous  might  be  expected  to  con- 
gregate. I  was  to  take  my  carriage,  and  wait  at  a  certain 
spot  in  the  Champs  Elyse"es.  He  was  to  bring  or  send  the 
man,  should  he  find  him.  If  the  gentleman  came  alone  he 


Terence  O'Rourke,  Gentleman  Adventurer 

would  make  himself  known  to  me  by  the  password  —  which 
you  know. 

"So  — apparently  Monsieur  Chambret  failed  in  his  mis- 
sion. The  rest  you  know.  You  came  —  and  now  that  I 
know  you,  Colonel  O'Rourke,  I  thank  — " 

"Madame!"  cried  the  Irishman  arising.  - 

She,  too,  stood  up;  her  glance  met  his,  and  seemed  deeply 
to  penetrate  his  mind.  As  if  satisfied,  impulsively  she  flung 
out  a  hand  towards  him.  O'Rourke  clasped  it  in  both  his 
own.  He  felt  himself  unable  to  speak;  for  the  moment  mere 
words  were  valueless. 

But  beneath  his  glance  the  woman  colored;  her  regard  of 
him  did  not  waver;  the  earnestness  of  her  purpose  blinded 
her  to  the  danger  of  encouraging  that  grand  amoreux, 
Terence  O'Rourke.  Her  eyes  shone  softly  and  it  may  have 
been  that  her  breathing  was  a  trifle  hurried. 

"Monsieur,"  she  cried,  "I  —  I  love  my  brother.  I  would 
save  him  from  —  from  himself.  Will  you,  then,  enter  my 
service  —  go  with  him  and  guard  him,  stand  at  his  side  and 
by  his  back,  shielding  him  against  assassination  or  —  or 
worse?  Will  you,  can  you  bring  yourself  to  do  this  thing 
for  me,  whom  you  do  not  know,  and  for  my  brother,  whom 
you  will  dislike?" 

"For  ye,  madame!"  he  declared.  "To  the  ends  of  the 
earth,  if  need  be!" 

He  felt  the  pressure  of  her  fingers  on  his  own,  significant  of 
her  gratitude.  O'Rourke  bent  over  the  little  hand,  raising  it 
to  his  lips.  . . . 

There  was  a  knock  on  the  door.  The  woman  released  her 
hand,  swiftly,  with  an  air  of  alarm. 

"Quick!"  she  cried.  "The  key,  monsieur!  This  will  be 
Monsieur  Chambret!" 

[42] 


CHAPTER  VI 

HE  DRAWS  ONE  CARD 

O'RouRKE  fumbled  in  his  pocket  desperately,  his  fingers 
on  that  key  all  the  time ;  but  he  did  not  want  to  give  it  up, 
he  did  not  care  to  see  Monsieur  Chambret  —  not  just  yet. 
A  dozen  pretexts  to  escape  the  meeting,  to  prolong  the  inter- 
view, flashed  through  his  brain  in  a  brief  moment;  but  none 
that  he  dared  use. 

Meanwhile,  the  rosy  palm  of  his  princess  was  outstretched 
to  receive  the  key,  and  she  was  eying  him  with  no  great  favor, 
biting  her  lip  with  impatience,  because  of  his  dalliance.  In 
the  end  O'Rourke  had  to  surrender  both  the  key  and  all 
hope  of  delaying  the  introduction. 

Madame  la  Princesse,  with  an  audible  sigh  of  relief,  swept 
over  to  the  door.  O'Rourke  remained,  standing,  at  the  side 
of  the  desk.  Perhaps  it  was  entirely  by  accident  that  his 
elbow  touched  the  edge  of  the  lamp  shade,  and  replaced  it  in 
its  former  position;  perhaps  he  made  the  adjustment  in  his 
preoccupation ;  perhaps  —  not. 

At  all  events,  that  was  what  immediately  happened,  before 
the  princess. had  time  to  get  that  door  open;  and  then  the  line 
of  the  light  cut  sharply  across  the  lower  part  of  O'Rourke's 
shirt  bosom,  as  he  stood  there,  leaving  the  upper  portion  of 
his  body  —  his  face,  in  particular  —  deeply  shadowed. 

He  turned  toward  the  door  in  uneasy  expectancy. 

Now  it  was  at  last  open ;  the  princess  stood  to  one  side,  her 
hand  on  the  knob,  bowing  mockingly  and  with  a  laugh. 

[43] 


Terence  O'Rourke,  Gentleman  Adventurer 

"Welcome,  monsieur!"  she  cried.     "But  you  are  late." 

"I  was  delayed." 

"But  just  in  time,  as  it  is,"  added  the  girl. 

The  newcomer  nodded  moodily,  hesitating  at  the  door, 
looking  from  the  princess  to  the  man  with  whom  she  had  been 
closeted,  and  back  again  —  as  one  with  the  right  to  demand 
an  explanation. 

The  princess  was  prompt  to  give  it. 

"Monsieur  Adolph  Chambret,"  she  said  ceremoniously: 
"my  new-found  friend  and  our  ally  in  this  affair,  Monsieur 
the  Colonel  O'Rourke,  Chevalier  of  the  Legion  of  Honor!" 

Both  men  bowed,  O'Rourke  deeply,  Chambret  with  a 
trace  of  hauteur  and  without  removing  a  remarkably  pene- 
trating gaze  from  the  countenance  of  the  Irishman. 

"You  see,  /  have  succeeded!"  continued  the  princess 
triumphantly.  "The  hour  grew  late  —  I  judged  that  you 
had  failed,  monsieur." 

"You  were  right,"  assented  Chambret  —  still  eying  the 
Irishman.  "I  failed  lamentably." 

He  breathed  rapidly  as  he  spoke,  his  face  red  as  with  un- 
accustomed exertion,  and  his  clothing  —  impeccable  evening 
dress  —  somewhat  disordered  and  dusty. 

He  was  a  man  largely  framed,  and  a  trifle  overweight, 
carrying  himself  well,  with  a  suggestion  of  activity  and  quick- 
ness in  his  bearing;  his  face  showed  intellectuality  of  a  high 
order  —  and  an  uncertain  temper;  he  was  bearded,  full- 
cheeked;  and  one  of  his  cheeks  bore  the  red  stamp  of  a  recent 
blow. 

Remarking,  for  the  first  time,  his  disheveled  appearance, 
the  girl  inquired  concerning  its  cause.  "You  have  had  an 
accident,  monsieur?"  she  asked  solicitously. 

"Nothing  of  moment,"  he  replied  carelessly:  "an  en- 

[44] 


He  Draws  one  Card 

counter  with  a  loafer  of  the  streets,  who  attempted  to  assault 
me." 

"And  —  and  —  ?"  she  suggested. 

"It  was  nothing  —  nothing,  madame,"  he  returned  with 
ease.  "I  was  forced  to  call  a  gendarme,  and  give  the  fellow 
in  charge,  to  be  rid  of  him.  He  will  spend  the  night  in  prison, 
which  may  improve  his  manners,"  he  added. 

His  veiled  meaning  was  quite  unintelligible  to  O'Rourke, 
who  drew  his  breath  sharply,  otherwise  exhibiting  no  emo- 
tion at  the  Frenchman's  remarkable  account  of  the  affair. 

"Me  faith!"  he  chuckled  to  himself.  "So  I've  been  ar- 
rested, have  I?  Good!  That  lets  me  out.  He  neither 
recognizes  nor  suspects  me!" 

A  clock  in  the  library  chimed  softly,  twice.  Upon  the 
sound  the  princess  turned,  and  looked  at  the  dial. 

"Half-past  three!"  she  cried.  "So  late!  Indeed,  we  are 
just  in  time,  messieurs.  I  have  no  time  to  waste  explaining 
to  you,  Monsieur  Chambret,  how  remarkably  Colonel 
O'Rourke  was  sent  to  me  in  my  need,"  she  continued.  "I 
go  at  once  to  my  brother  and  his  —  council  I  I  will  return 
for  you  in  —  say,  ten  minutes  at  the  most." 

She  courtesied  gaily  to  the  two  men,  and  left  the  room. 

To  O'Rourke  it  seemed  as  though  the  study,  bereft  of  her 
presence,  acquired  an  entirely  new  and  uncomfortable  at- 
mosphere. He  inspired  harshly  again  —  half  a  sigh,  half  in 
expectation  of  what  might  follow. 

Chambret,  bowing  reverently  at  the  door  as  the  princess 
passed  out,  straightened  himself,  almost  with  a  jerk,  and  shut 
it  sharply.  He  stood  for  a  moment  as  if  lost  in  thought,  then 
wheeled  about,  and  came  down  the  room  deliberately,  slowly 
removing  his  gloves,  his  gaze  again  full  upon  the  face  of  the 
Irishman. 

[45] 


Terence  O'Rourke,  Gentleman  Adventurer 

As  for  the  latter,  he  appreciated  the  fact  that  it  was  a  tick- 
lish moment  for  him,  an  encounter  fraught  with  peril.  His 
only  course  was  to  face  the  man  down,  to  defy  him,  to  rely 
upon  his  effrontery — if  it  so  happened  that  Chambret  had 
indeed  recognized  him. 

He  was  not  long  to  be  left  in  doubt,  —  if  he  did  honestly 
doubt. 

Deliberately,  Chambret  approached  the  table,  halting  by 
its  edge,  not  a  yard  distant  from  the  Irishman,  his  brow  black 
with  rage,  his  eyes  scintillating  with  hate.  Abruptly  he 
brought  his  gloves  down,  with  a  sharp  slap,  upon  the  polished 
wood. 

"So,  canaille!"  he  said  sharply. 

"What?"  demanded  O'Rourke  audaciously.  His  man- 
ner said  plainly  enough,  "Is  it  possible?  Can  I  believe  me 
cars  ?  What  does  he  mean  ?  " 

Chambret  quickly  swung  up  the  shade  of  the  lamp,  nod- 
ding in  satisfaction  as  the  glare  disclosed  the  lineaments  of 
the  Irishman. 

"I  thought  so,"  he  said.     "I  was  not  mistaken." 

O'Rourke  dropped  languidly,  easily,  into  the  chair,  swing- 
ing a  careless  leg  over  one  of  its  arms. 

"Upon  me  word!"  he  mused  aloud.  "What  is  he  driving 
at  now,  d'ye  think  ?  Is  the  man  mad  ?  " 

Chambret's  attitude  was  a  puzzle  to  him.  If  the  man  had 
immediately  identified  him,  why  had  he  not  been  denounced 
to  the  princess  at  once  ?  Why  this  delay,  this  playing  to  the 
gallery  for  melodramatic  effect  ? 

"Of  course,"  he  admitted,  "the  man's  a  Frenchman;  'tis 
not  in  the  likes  of  him  to  miss  a  chance  of  showing  off.  But 
nobody's  watching  him  now,  save  me.  What  for  is  he 
waiting?" 

[461 


He  Draws  one  Card 

However,  he  was  yet  to  become  acquainted  with  Monsieui 
Adolph  Chambret.  That  gentleman  took  his  full  time,  care- 
fully mapping  out  his  plan  of  action  behind  that  high,  think- 
ing forehead  of  his,  as  carefully  subduing  his  anger  —  or, 
rather,  keeping  his  finger  upon  the  gage  of  it,  that  it  might 
not  get  beyond  his  control. 

"  You  are  wondering  what  I  propose  to  do  with  you,  mon- 
sieur?" he  queried  at  length,  in  a  temperate,  even  tone. 

"  Faith,  I  was  wondering  what  I'd  have  to  do  to  ye,  to  make 
ye  keep  quiet,"  amended  O'Rourke,  abandoning  all  pretense. 

The  Frenchman  moved  impatiently.  "You  are  presump- 
tuous, monsieur,"  he  said. 

"I'm  the  very  divvle  of  a  fellow,"  admitted  O'Rourke 
with  engaging  candor.  "We'll  take  all  the  personalities  for 
granted,  if  ye  please,  Monsieur  Chambret.  But  as  to  busi- 
ness—  " 

"I  am  debating  whether  or  not  to  hand  you  over  to  the 
gendarmes." 

"Ye  harbored  that  identical  delusion  a  while  ago,  I  believe. 
Don't  bother  with  it;  'tis  not  so,  really." 

"And  whixt  is  to  prevent  me,  may  I  ask?" 

"The  answer,  monsieur,"  returned  O'Rourke,  unruffled, 
"  is  —  meself .  Do  ye  connect  with  that  ?  " 

Chambret's  eyes  blazed;  but  still  he  held  his  temper  in 
leash. 

"May  I  inquire  how  you  elbowed  your  way  in  here?" 

"'Tis  easy  enough;  I've  no  objection  to  telling  ye.  Ye 
called  your  policeman  —  I  ran.  Ye  pursued  —  I  saw  the 
open  door  of  madame's  fiacre,  thought  it  empty,  jumped  in, 
telling  the  driver  to  go  to  the  Gare  du  Nprd.  He  went  — 
bless  him !  —  as  though  every  gendarme  in  Paris  was  after 
him." 

[47] 


Terence  O'Rourke,  Gentleman  Adventurer 

"And—" 

"And  so  I  became  acquainted  with  madame;  she  knew 
me,  it  seems, —  knew  me  record,  —  and  asked  me  to  join  her 
in  this  affair.  I  agreed/' 

"You  know  —  everything,  then,  monsieur?" 

"Sure  I  do,  me  boy.  And  now,  what  are  ye  going  to  do 
about  it?" 

"Nothing,"  announced  Chambret  coolly,  seating  himself  in 
the  chair  which  the  princess  had  vacated.  "  Nothing  at  all." 

He  directed  a  level  stare  at  O'Rourke,  who  sat  up  and 
faced  him  suddenly. 

"I'll  be  damned!"  the  Irishman  prophesied  admiringly. 
"D'ye  mean  it?" 

"I  do,  most  certainly." 

"Why?"  gasped  O'Rourke,  astonished. 

"Because  we  need  you,  monsieur.  More  particularly, 
because  madame  needs  you.  My  personal  feelings  must  — 
wait,  I  presume." 

"Upon  me  word,  I'm  disposed  to  apologize  to  ye!" 

"You  forget  that  there  is  no  apology  for  a  blow.  I  shall 
expect  my  satisfaction  upon  your  return." 

"Faith,  ye  can  have  it  then  —  or  now,"  O'Rourke  fired  up. 
"I'll  say  this  to  ye,  for  your  own  good:  The  next  time  ye  see 
that  a  man's  broke,  don't  throw  it  in  his  face.  Tis  worse 
than  a  red  rag  to  a  bull." 

"An  error  of  judgment,  perhaps,"  agreed  Chambret, 
thoughtfully. 

"  But  as  for  your  satisfaction  —  I'll  permit  no  man  to  outdo 
me  in  generosity,  sir;  I'm  at  your  service  when  ye  please." 

Chambret  put  his  hand  to  his  face;  upon  his  cheek  the  red 
weal  blazed.  His  brows  darkened  ominously;  and  he  glanced 
from  O'Rourke  to  the  clock. 

[48] 


"We  have  time,"  he  debated,  "to  settle  our  little  affair 
before  the  return  of  madame." 

"What  d'ye  mean,  monsieur?"  asked  O'Rourke,  wide- 
eyed. 

"I'll  take  you  at  your  word,"  concluded  Chambret,  arising 
suddenly.  "You  shall  give  me  satisfaction  now." 

"Thediwleyesay!" 

O'Rourke,  too,  got  upon  his  feet. 

"  Precisely.  We  can  fight  here  as  comfortably  as  anywhere. 
The  room  was  designed  for  absolute  quiet;  the  walls  are 
sound  proof." 

"Faith!"  cried  the  Irishman.  "D'ye  mean  we're  to  duel 
with  pistols  —  here?" 

"  Just  so,  monsieur." 

"  But  —  the  weapons  ?  " 

Chambret  pulled  open  a  drawer  of  the  desk,  peered  within 
and  removed  from  it  a  revolver. 

"This,"  he  indicated. 

"  But  that's  only  one  1" 

"All  that  will  be  necessary,  monsieur.  We  will  let  the 
cards  decide."  He  took  from  another  drawer  a  deck  of  play- 
ing cards  —  new. 

"We  will  deal,  monsieur,"  he  continued,  "one  to  me,  one 
to  you,  card  by  card.  He  who  receives  the  ace  of  spades  — 
You  comprehend?" 

"  Suicide,  d'ye  mean  ?  " 

'•'No.  The  unlucky  one  of  us  to  stand  at  the  farther  end 
of  the  room;  the  other  to  remain  here  with  the  revolver,  to 
count  three,  aim  and  fire  instantly.  Are  you  agreeable?" 

O'Rourke  whistled  his  admiration  —  an  emotion  not,  how- 
ever, untinged  with  perturbation. 

"Ye  have  your  nerve  with  ye,  if  ye  are  in  earnest,"  he 

' 


protested.  "Let's  see,  this  is  your  proposition:  First,  we 
play  an  innocent  game  of  cards;  then  one  of  us  commits 
a  murder  ?  Is  that  it  ?  Well  —  since  ye  are  the  one  to 
propose  it,  I'm  your  man.  Deal  on,  monsieur!" 

Chambret  nodded  coldly,  stripped  the  deck  and  shuffled 
with  care,  O'Rourke  watching  him  narrowly.  Finally 
Chambret  was  satisfied,  took  up  the  deck  and  drew  off  the 
top  card. 

"  One  moment,  monsieur!"  interposed  O'Rourke.  "There's 
a  man  of  me  race  that  has  said, '  Trust  every  man,  but  cut  the 
cards.'  Faith,  I'm  thinking  that's  good  advice." 

The  Frenchman  ground  an  imprecation  between  his  teeth, 
and  slammed  the  deck  upon  the  desk.  O'Rourke  cut  them 
with  care. 

"Proceed,"  he  consented  calmly. 

Trembling  with  anger,  Chambret  dealt:  a  card  to  himself 
first  —  the  nine  of  hearts;  a  card  to  O'Rourke  — 

The  Irishman  felt  the  room  swimming  about  him;  he 
clutched  the  arms  of  his  chair  with  a  grip  of  agony,  his  gaze 
transfixed  upon  the  card  before  him :  the  ace  of  spades. 

He  heard  Chambret  laughing  lightly,  saw  the  gleam  of  his 
white  teeth  in  the  lamplight,  and  staggered  to  his  feet. 

"Very  well,"  he  heard  himself  saying,  as  with  another's 
voice,  distantly.  "'Tis  the  fortune  of  war.  Proceed,  mon- 
sieur." 

He  was  aware  that  he  walked,  but  as  one  dreaming,  to  the 
farther  end  of  the  apartment;  he  remembers  turning  and 
facing  Chambret;  he  recalls  folding  his  arms  and  reminding 
himself  to  hold  his  head  high;  but  the  heart  of  him  was  like 
water.  He  waited  there  what  seemed  an  interminable  time, 
while  Chambret,  grinning  malevolently,  tested  the  revolver, 
assuring  himself  that  it  was  properly  loaded. 

[50] 


He  Draws  one  Card 

And  then  his  grimace  faded;  O'Rourke  saw  the  weapon 
slowly  swinging  at  the  man's  side;  and  he  head  a  voice  ring- 
ing through  the  room,  reverberating  upon  his  tympanums 
like  the  thunders  of  the  Day  of  Judgment. 

"One  —  two—  " 

The  arm  ceased  to  sway;  in  a  moment  it  would  arise, 
Chambret  would  fire;  O'Rourke  even  fancied  that  he  heard 
the  beginning  of  the  fatal  monosyllable : 

"Th—  " 

He  closed  his  eyes  —  only  to  open  them  again  immediately, 
as  the  voice  of  madame  the  princess  sounded,  following  upon 
the  sudden  opening  of  the  door: 

"Messieurs!" 

Chambret's  half-raised  arm  fell.  O'Rourke  steadied  him- 
self with  a  hand  against  the  wall;  a  dim  mist  swam  before  his 
eyes,  seemingly  almost  palpable.  Through  it  the  voices  of 
madame  and  Chambret  came  to  him  with  odd  and  unfamiliar 
intonations. 

"  Monsieur  Chambret !    What  is  this  ?  " 

"A  test  of  marksmanship,  merely,  madame.  I  am  exhibit- 
ing my  skill  to  Monsieur  le  Colonel  O'Rourke;  you  will  ob- 
serve he  holds  a  card  in  his  hand." 

O'Rourke  clenched  his  teeth  and  so  forced  himself  to  a 
state  of  thought  wherein  he  was  capable  of  intelligent  action. 
Chambret's  concluding  words  were  ringing  in  his  ears;  he 
glanced  at  his  hand,  saw  that  indeed  he  was  holding  the  fatal 
ace  of  spades  —  \vhich  he  must  have  picked  up  and  retained 
unconsciously.  He  glanced  at  the  woman,  at  Chambret;  the 
latter  stood  stern  and  implacable;  in  his  eyes  O'Rourke' read 
murder. 

He  divined  the  man's  purpose  to  turn  the  farcical  situation 
into  a  tragedy;  but  within  him  the  instinct  of  self-preserva- 


Terence  O'Rourke,  Gentleman  Adventurer 

tion  seemed  dormant  —  or  bound  and  helpless,  enchained  by 
the  tenets  of  that  thing  called  "honor." 

Mechanically  O'Rourke  raised  his  arm,  holding  the  card 
in  his  hand,  a  little  to  one  side. 

Chambret  again  took  deliberate  aim.  The  princess 
started  forward  with  a  cry  of  protest. 

She  was  too  late;  Monsieur  Chambret  had  fired. 


[521 


CHAPTER  VII 

HE  CONSIDERS  THE  GREAT  SCHEME 

BANDIED  back  and  forth  by  the  four  walls  of  the  study  the 
report  crashed  and  echoed,  reverberating,  like  a  peal  of  thun- 
der. When  it  died  out,  there  was  absolute  silence  for  a 
space,  during  which  all  three  actors  of  the  litte  drama  stood 
almost  as  though  stricken  motionless. 

O'Rourke  saw  Chambret  slowly  lower  the  revolver,  the 
whites  of  his  eyes  gleaming  in  the  lamplight;  while  from  the 
muzzle  of  the  weapon  a  thin,  grayish  spiral  of  smoke  trickled 
up  to  join  the  heavier,  pungent  cloud  that  hovered  near  the 
ceiling.  He  saw  Madame  la  Princesse  standing,  swaying  ever 
so  slightly,  her  hands  clasped  before  her,  her  lips  a-quiver 
with  mute  inquiry,  her  eyes,  horror  filled,  fixed  upon  his  face. 

Chambret  stepped  back  and  cast  the  revolver  upon  the 
desk,  whereon  it  fell  with  a  heavy  thud,  shattering  the  silence 
and  quickening  the  tableau  simultaneously. 

Madame  started  toward  O'Rourke  with  a  low  cry. 

"A  good  shot!"  said  the  latter  composedly.  "A  very 
good  shot,  Monsieur  Chambret;  for  which  pray  accept  me 
congratulations. ' ' 

He  held  out  the  card  in  a  hand  that  was  steadiness  itself. 

"Observe,  madame,"  he  said  unperturbed,  "the  bullet 
penetrated  the  precise  center  of  the  ace  —  and  in  this  half 
light!" 

She  was  near  enough  to  him  now  to  snatch  the  card  from 
his  fingers,  not  rudely  but  in  an  agony  of  suspense.  Holding 

[53] 


Terence  O'Rourke,  Gentleman  Adventurer 

it  up  to  the  light  she  verified  his  statement;  and  he  saw  that 
her  own  hand  was  shaking. 

A  vague  sense  of  triumph  caused  him  to  look  toward  Cham- 
bret; who  bowed  ironically. 

"But  —  but  you  are  not  injured,  monsieur?" 

It  was  the  princess  who  addressed  him;  O'Rourke  dared 
to  smile  at  her  —  a  smile  that  was  at  once  bright  with  his 
consciousness  of  his  triumph,  and  itself  a  triumph  of  dissimu- 
lation. 

"Not  in  the  least,"  he  hastened  to  reassure  her;  "Monsieur 
Chambret  is  too  skilful  a  shot  to  have  chanced  a  mistake." 

"You  are  satisfied  as  to  my  skill,  then,  monsieur?"  in- 
quired Chambret. 

"Quite  —  and  shall  be  so  for  a  long  time  to  come."  He 
remembered  his  role  in  the  deception  which  they  were  united 
in  practising  upon  madame,  and  laughed  again.  "I  yield 
the  point,  monsieur,"  he  added,  "and  likewise  the  palm. 
Ye  are  a  finer  shot  than  I,  be  long  odds." 

But  it  is  a  question  as  to  whether  or  not  they  were  successful 
in  deceiving  the  princess;  the  glance  that  she  shifted  from  the 
one  to  the  other  was  filled  with  dubiety. 

She  felt  instinctively,  perhaps,  that  here  was  something 
deeper  than  appeared  upon  the  surface;  but  she  might  not 
probe  it  courteously  nor  with  any  propriety,  since  both  seemed 
to  desire  her  to  believe  that  the  affair  had  been  nothing  more 
than  a  test  of  Monsieur  Chambret's  mastery  of  the  weapon. 

"In  the  future,  messieurs,"  she  announced  frowning,  "I 
trust  that  you  will  confine  your  exhibitions  to  more  appro- 
priate hours  and  localities.  Moreover,  I  do  not  like  it.  At 
best  it  is  dangerous  and  proves  little.  Colonel  O'Rourke, 
your  arm." 

She  gathered  up  the  train  of  her  evening  gown,  and  moved 

[54] 


He  Considers  the  Great  Scheme 

away  with  the  Irishman;  who  by  now  was  so  far  recovered 
that  he  could  not  repress  his  elation.  This,  he  felt,  was  in 
some  way  a  distinct  triumph  over  his  saturnine  rival;  for  as 
such  he  already  chose  to  consider  Chambret.  And  he  ven- 
tured to  turn  and  wink  roguishly  at  the  Frenchman  as  they 
left  the  room. 

As  for  Chambret,  it  seemed  that  he  was  not  bidden  to  the 
conference  with  the  brother  of  Madame  la  Princesse;  they 
left  him  staring  glumly  at  the  floor  and  twisting  his  mustache, 
in  a  mood  that  seemed  far  from  one  of  self-satisfaction. 

"Now,  'tis  strange  to  me,"  volunteered  O'Rourke,  "that 
the  shot  startled  no  one  —  the  sen-ants,  or  your  brother  and 
his  guests." 

"The  servants,"  explained  madame,  "are  trained  to  ignore 
the  unusual  in  this  house;  besides,  their  presence  is  not  de- 
sired above  stairs  at  this  hour.  As  for  my  brother,  he  is 
closeted  with  his  friends  in  another  wing  of  the  building." 

Thereafter  she  lapsed  into  a  meditation,  from  which  he 
made  no  attempt  to  rouse  her;  he  kept  the  corner  of  his  eye 
upon  her  fair,  finely  modeled  head  that  was  bowed  so  near 
to  his  shoulder;  and  he  recalled  jubilantly  the  look  of  keen 
anxiety  that  had  been  hers  when  she  had  fancied  him 
wounded.  To  be  able  to  think  of  that,  and  to  be  in  her  com- 
pany, O'Rourke  felt,  were  happiness  enough  for  him  — 
enough  and  far  beyond  his  deserts. 

Thus  quietly  they  traversed  a  series  of  broad,  dimly  lighted 
corridors,  meeting  no  one;  but,  after  some  time,  his  princess 
stopped  with  O'Rourke  outside  a  certain  door. 

"Monsieur,"  she  said  softly,  nor  raised  her  eyes,  "it  is 
here  that  I  leave  you  to  return  to  my  home.  Within  this  dooi 
you  will  meet  my  brother,  Monsieur  Lemercier;  my  husband, 
Monsieur  le  Prince  de  Grandlieu,  and  —  and  others.  You 

[55] 


may  —  I  fancy  you  will —  find  them  uncongenial;  I  could  al- 
most hope  that  you  would.  I  can  only  trust  that  you  will  be 
able  to  endure  them,  monsieur.  You  know  what  I — I  expect 
of  you;  and  will  presently  learn  what  other  duties  will  be  yours 
to  perform.  I  think  I  may  rely  upon  you  to  play  your  part." 

"Madame,"  he  returned  lightly,  yet  with  earnestness  un- 
derlying his  tone,  "I  realize  that  I  am,  in  a  way,  a  forlorn 
hope.  But  ye  may  trust  me." 

"  I  believe  so,"  she  said  soberly.  "  I  shall  not  —  may  not 
see  you  again  for  some  time.  You  —  you  will  —  ?  " 

"I  will  do  all  that  ye  wish  me  to,  madame,  so  far  as  lies  in 
me  power  —  and  a  trifle  further,  perhaps." 

She  smiled,  amused  by  the  gallant  boast,  and  gave  him 
her  hand. 

"Then,"  she  breathed,  —  "then,  good-night,  my  friend." 

"Madame!"  cried  O'Rourke. 

For  the  tenth  part  of  a  second  her  fingers  rested  in  his,  then 
were  withdrawn.  He  sighed;  but  she  merely  turned  and 
knocked  gently  upon  the  panels. 

Almost  immediately  the  door  was  opened;  a  man  peered 
out,  and,  recognizing  the  princess,  emerged,  closing  the  door 
behind  him. 

"Oh,  it's  you,  Beatrix,"  he  greeted  her  languidly. 

"Yes,  Leopold.  I  have  brought  you  the  gentleman  of 
whom  I  spoke:  Colonel  O'Rourke,  Chevalier  of  the  Legion 
of  Honor,  once  of  the  Foreign  Legion  in  the  Soudan  —  my 
brother,  Monsieur  Leopold  Lemercier." 

The  young  man  turned  to  O'Rourke,  offering  his  hand  with 
a  ready,  feebly  good-humored  smile. 

" Colonel  O'Rourke!"  he  cried,  with  a  vapid  laugh.  "The 
very  man!  I'm  glad  to  meet  you,  monsieur;  I  have  heard  of 
you  before." 

[56] 


He  Considers  the  Great  Scheme 

'"The  divvle!"  thought  O'Rourke.  "And,  by  that  token, 
I've  heard  of  ye  —  ye  little  scamp!"  But  aloud  he  returned 
the  greeting  blandly. 

''Thank  you,  Beatrix,"  continued  Lemercier.     "And — " 

"  I  am  going  home,"  she  replied.  "  Good-night,  messieurs. 
Monsieur  le  Colonel  O'Rourke,  au  revoir." 

Lemercier,  rather  than  at  once  returning  with  O'Rourke 
to  his  companions,  lingered  until  his  sister  was  out  of  ear- 
shot, with  the  manner  of  one  who  has  something  on  his 
mind. 

He  was  very  youthful  in  appearance, —  a  mere  slip  of  a  boy, 
attired  a  trifle  too  exquisitely  in  the  positive  extreme  of  the 
fashion.  No  force  of  character  was  to  be  seen  charted  upon 
his  smooth,  lineless  countenance  —  just  then  somewhat 
flushed;  though  whether  from  alcohol  or  excitement,  O'Rourke 
could  not  determine. 

His  eyes,  which  were  small,  were  of  a  vague  and  indefinite 
gray,  his  hair  light,  of  a  neutral  tint,  and  inclined  to  fall 
across  his  forehead  in  a  stringy  bang.  His  mouth  was  weak, 
lacking  character,  his  nose  a  smooth  arch,  conveying  no  im- 
pression of  mental  strength.  As  a  rule,  he  kept  his  hands1' 
uneasily  in  his  pockets;  at  other  times  they  were  constantly 
busy  with  some  object  —  his  watch  chain,  or  the  heavy,  gem- 
encrusted  rings  with  which  his  slight  fingers  were  laden. 

O'Rourke  was  inclined  to  take  his  measure  thoroughly, 
not  only  because  of  the  strange  and  interesting  manner  in 
which  they  had  been  thrown  together,  but  also  because  "le 
petit  Lemercier"  was  a  national  character  of  France — or  the 
national  laughing  stock. 

For  some  years  this  weakling,  the  enormously  wealthy  son 
of  a  rich  chocolate  manufacturer  recently  deceased,  had  kept 
Paris  agape  with  his  harebrained  pranks,  his  sybaritic  enter- 

[57] 


Terence  O'Rourke,  Gentleman  Adventurer 

tainments,  his  lavish  disbursement  of  the  money  which  he 
had  inherited. 

Rumor  had  it  that  already,  in  the  four  years  that  had 
elapsed  since  he  had  come  into  his  fortune,  he  had  not  only 
expended  all  of  his  income,  huge  as  that  was  known  to  be, 
but  had  made  serious  inroads  upon  his  capital. 

This  was  undoubtedly  due  to  his  incapacity  and  dissipa- 
tion; "the  little  Lemercier"  maintained  constantly  a  circle  of 
scheming  flatterers  and  panderers,  who  had  always  some 
fresh  scheme  ready  to  assist  in  the  separation  of  the  young 
fool  from  his  money. 

And  now  that  he  knew  whom  he  was  to  protect, 
O'Rourke  felt  as  if  a  blindfolding  bandage  had  suddenly 
dropped  from  his  eyes;  not  only  did  he  realize  that  the  fears 
of  Madame  la  Princesse  for  the  welfare  of  le  petit  Lemercier 
were  well  grounded,  but  he  had  no  difficulty  in  identifying 
that  lady  with  the  young  girl,  who,  fresh  from  the  seclusion 
of  a  convent,  had  been  persuaded  by  this  same  brother,  Leo- 
pold, to  contract  a  marriage  with  Prince  Felix,  the  debauched 
head  of  the  insignificant  and  impoverished  principality  of 
Grandlieu. 

He  recalled  quite  distinctly  the  sensation  that  marriage  had 
created,  a  year  or  so  back;  as  well  as  the  public  indignation 
and  sympathy  for  the  ignorant  and  unsophisticated  girl  who 
had  given  her  hand  and  her  immense  fortune  into  the  keeping 
of  the  most  notorious  roue  in  Europe. 

A  sudden  rage  welled  in  O'Rourke's  heart,  as  he  thought 
of  this,  and  a  faint  disgust  stirred  him  as  he  gazed  upon  this 
enfeebled,  weak-eyed,  self-complacent  stripling  who  was 
negatively  responsible  for  the  degradation  of  his  sister. 

But  le  petit  Lemercier  put  an  end  to  the  meditations  of  the 
Irishman. 

[58] 


He  Considers  the  Great  Scheme 

"One  moment,  monsieur,  before  we  enter,"  he  stipulated. 
"You  understand  what  circumstances  have  induced  me  to 
accede  to  Beatrix's  absurd  notion  ?  Well,"  he  went  on,  with- 
out waiting  for  a  reply,  "it  is  absurd,  anyway;  and,  just  to 
keep  my  word  with  her,  I've  had  to  tell  them  inside  that  I've 
known  you  for  a  long  time,  and  sent  for  you  on  purpose  for 
the  work  in  hand.  I  couldn't  insult  my  friends  by  telling 
them  the  real  reason  why  I'm  employing  you." 

"Very  well,"  assented  O'Rourke,  between  his  teeth,  his 
blood  seeming  to  boil  in  resentment  of  the  assumption  of 
superiority  with  which  le  petit  Lemercier  was  treating  him. 

"Yes,  monsieur;  since  that's  understood,  and  you  won't 
be  making  any  blunders,  we'll  go  inside,  if  you  please." 

He  turned  the  handle  of  the  door,  and  his  back  insolently 
to  O'Rourke,  and  stalked  stiffly  into  the  room;  the  Irishman 
swallowed  his  rage  at  the  other's  impertinence,  and  followed. 

The  room  which  he  entered  was  almost  a  duplicate  of  the 
one  wherein  he  had  conferred  with  his  princess,  save  that  it 
was  somewhat  smaller,  and,  instead  of  the  desk,  a  huge  table 
occupied  the  center  of  the  floor. 

Round  it  were  ranged  armchairs,  wherein  lounged  four 
men,  who  rose  at  the  entrance  of  the  stranger. 

Lemercier  marched  to  the  head  of  the  table,  and  sat  down. 

"Messieurs,"  he  said,  with  a  negligent  flirt  of  his  white, 
pudgy  hand,  "you  will  permit  me  to  introduce  Monsieur  le 
Colonel  O'Rourke,  of  the  Foreign  Legion  —  the  gentleman 
of  whom  I  have  spoken,  as  the  future  commander-in-chief  of 
the  imperial  army.  Colonel  O'Rourke,  I  have  the  honor  to 
make  you  known  to  Monsieur  le  Prince  de  Grandlieu,  and 
Messieurs  Valliant,  Mouchon,  and  D'Ervy." 

The  messieurs  bowed  ceremoniously  —  and  most  coldly, 
apparently  resenting  this  intrusion  upon  their  charmed  circle  j 

[59J 


Terence  O'Rourke,  Gentleman  Adventurer 

on  the  principle,  possibly,  of  the  more  birds  of  prey,  the  less 
gorging  of  each  individual  crop. 

As  for  O'Rourke,  he  returned  their  greetings  with  scarcely 
less  frigidity  of  manner.  He  constrained  himself  to  bare 
civility,  but  was  unable  to  feign  any  considerable  pleasure 
because  of  the  association  in  which  he  found  himself. 

Lemercier  indicated  a  chair,  into  which  the  Irishman 
dropped  unwillingly;  had  he  followed  his  own  inclinations  he 
would  have  delayed  not  one  moment  ere  leaving  before  he 
knew  more,  before  pledging  himself  and  his  sword  to  the 
service  of  this  gathering  of  blackguards. 

But  he  recognized  that  he  was,  as  he  put  it,  "in  for  it";  he 
had  given  his  word  to  his  princess,  and  the  desire  to  serve  her 
outweighed  his  personal  tastes  in  the  matter. 

Le  petit  Lemercier  invited  the  Irishman  to  help  himself  to 
the  wine  and  cigars  which  were  set  out  upon  a  convenient 
buffet,  then  concerned  himself  no  more  for  the  comfort  of  his 
guest.  He  got  upon  his  feet  unsteadily  —  it  became  mo- 
mentarily more  apparent  that  he  was  drinking  too  deeply  for 
the  clearness  of  his  brain  —  and  began  to  talk  in  a  halting 
fashion,  leaving  the  half  of  his  sentences  unfinished  and  in- 
conclusive. 

But  the  attention  he  received  was  flattering;  with  the  pos- 
sible exception  of  the  prince,  his  sycophants  hung  upon  his 
words  with  breathless  interest.  Only  O'Rourke  permitted 
his  eyes  to  stray  from  the  face  of  his  host  to  the  countenances 
of  the  others,  mentally  inventorying  their  characters,  cata- 
loguing them  for  future  reference. 

Monsieur  le  Prince  de  Grandlieu  he  had  not  expected  to 
like;  what  he  saw  of  him  did  not  tend  to  remove  the  prejudice 
—  a  slim,  tall  figure  of  a  man,  ridiculously  padded  at  every 
possible  point,  and  corseted  so  that  his  figure  resembled  a 

[60] 


He  Considers  the  Great  Scheme 

woman's  more  nearly  than  a  man's;  he  was  hatchet-faced 
and  dark,  with  evasive  eyes  of  a  saturnine,  sneering  cast;  im- 
peccable as  to  dress,  an  elegant;  ostentatiously  rakish. 

Apparently  returning  O'Rourke's  disdain  with  interest, 
he  sat  slouched  in  an  armchair,  airily  twirling  an  end  of  his 
black  mustache,  occasionally  eying  the  intruder  with  no 
friendly  glance. 

As  for  the  others,  they  were  ordinary  types  of  Parisians: 
Valliant,  a  heavy,  swaggering  growth  of  the  boulevards,  red- 
faced  and  loud-voiced;  Mouchon,  pasty  of  complexion,  nerv- 
ous, slinking,  and  apologetic  in  manner;  D'Ervy,  a  vice- 
marked  nonenity  of  Lemercier's  grade,  pimply,  heavy-eyed, 
ungracious,  and  vacuous. 

Meanwhile,  le  petit  Lemercier  was  talking  —  rambling  on 
in  an  aimless,  inconsequential  fashion,  chiefly  in  praise  of 
his  own  wonderful  sagacities  and  abilities  in  planning  an 
enterprise  which  he  as  yet  had  not  named.  Suddenly,  how- 
ever, he  broke  off,  flushed  his  throat  with  a  glass  of  cham- 
pagne; and  the  conversation  took  on  a  complexion  which 
commanded  O'Rourke's  undivided  interest. 

"Messieurs,"  said  Lemercier,  puffing  with  importance, 
"we  are  assembled  on  the  eve  of  a  movement  which  will 
astonish  and  compel  the  admiration  not  only  of  all  Europe, 
but  of  the  civilized  world  as  well." 

He  paused,  and  turned  to  the  Irishman. 

"O'Rourke,  mon  ami,"  he  continued,  with  abrupt  famil- 
iarity, "these,  my  comrades,  are  already  intimate  with  my 
project.  For  months  we  have  been  planning  and  perfecting  it ; 
latterly  we  have  waited  only  for  you,  mon  brave,  a  soldier  tried 
and  proven,  to  work  with  us  for  glory  and  for  —  empire!" 

"The  diwle  ye  say!"  interjected  the  disgusted  O'Rourke 
to  himself. 

[Si] 


Terence  O'Rourke,  Gentleman  Adventurer 

"In  a  week,  monsieur,  we  start  upon  our  expedition.  In 
two  weeks  or  less  the  Empire  of  the  Sahara  will  be  inaugu- 
rated —  in  a  month  it  will  be  a  fact  accomplished." 

He  gestured  toward  the  wall,  and  D'Ervy  sprang  from  his 
chair,  to  unrol  an  immense  map  of  Northern  Africa  which 
hung  thereon.  Lepetit  Lemercier,  swelling  with  pride, 
went  to  it  and  indicated  his  points  as  he  talked. 

"Here,"  he  said,  drawing  O'Rourke's  attention  to  a  spot 
on  the  west  coast  of  the  continent,  "is  Cape  Bojador.  Here, 
again,"  moving  his  finger  a  foot  north  upon  the  coast  line, 
"is  Cape  Juby.  To  the  north  lies  Morocco;  to  the  south  lie 
the  Spanish  Rio  de  Oro  possessions.  But  between  the  two 
capes  is  unclaimed  land.  There,  messieurs,  lies  the  land 
that  shall  be  our  Empire  of  the  Sahara.  There  shall  we 
establish  and  build  up  a  country  greater  even  than  our 
France!" 

Valliant  rapped  his  applause  upon  the  table;  Mouchon 
cheered  weakly.  O'Rourke  looked  dubious. 

"  Pardon,"  he  said,  "  but  is  not  that  the  coast  of  the  Sahara  ? 
Is  it  not  desert  land,  —  waste,  arid?" 

"Ah,  yes,  monsieur;  that  is  the  general  impression.  But 
you  shall  see  what  we  shall  do  in  this  No-man's  Land  which 
the  grasping  English  have  overlooked,  which  France  dis- 
dains, which  Spain  forgets!  In  the  first  place,  the  land  is  not 
arid;  to  my  personal  knowledge  there  is  a  large  and  fertile 
oasis  a  short  distance  inland  from  the  coast,  in  one  spot;  and 
beyond  doubt  there  be  others." 

"Undoubtedly!"  affirmed  the  prince. 

"Here,  monsieur,"  Lemercier  continued  enthusiastically, 
pointing  to  an  indefinite,  ragged  line  winding  inland  a  little 
distance  below  Cape  Juby,  "is  the  Wadi  Saglat  el  Hamra  — • 
the  dry  bed  of  an  ancient  stream  — " 

[*] 


He  Considers  the  Great  Scheme 

"Dry?"  queried  O'Rourke,  beginning  to  be  interested  in 
spite  of  himself. 

"  Now  dry,  mon  ami;  but  wait  —  wait  until  we  have  dis- 
covered its  former  sources,  wait  until  Science  has  reopened 
and  made  them  to  flow  again.  Then  shall  the  Wadi  Saglat 
make  its  majestic  way  to  the  ocean  —  a  mighty  stream,  fer- 
tilizing and  irrigating  the  surrounding  territory.  Moreover, 
artesian  wells  shall  be  sunk  wherever  practicable;  around 
them  oases  shall  spring  to  life,  rejuvenating  the  desert.  We 
—  we,  messieurs !  —  shall  be  the  vanguards  of  empire,  the 
reclaimers  of  the  waste  lands  of  the  world,  making  the  desert 
to  blossom  as  a  garden ! 

"Cities  shall  be  built,  colonists  shall  flock  to  us,  homes 
shall  be  established  for  thousands  of  families.  The  sands 
of  the  desert  will  yield  up  their  gold  to  us.  A  port  will 
be  established  as  a  terminus  for  the  thousands  of  desert  cara- 
vans who  now  take  their  goods  to  the  Senegal.  Messieurs, 
the  Empire  of  the  Sahara,  within  two  years,  shall  obtain 
recognition  from  the  Powers  of  the  world.  Within  five  it 
shall  be  a  Power  itself.  And  I  —  /,  messieurs !  —  shall  be 
Emperor!" 

The  ardor  of  le  petit  Lemercier  was  pitiable,  yet  infectious; 
the  Irishman  found  himself  listening  eagerly. 

"There's  something  in  it!"  he  whispered.  "Me  faith,  I 
do  believe  it  might  be  done!"  His  adventurous  spirit  kin- 
dled, flashing  from  his  eyes.  "There'll  be  fighting,"  he  con- 
sidered shrewdly. 

Lemercier  turned  to  him,  breathing  quickly  with  excite- 
ment, carried  away  by  his  own  schoolboy  eloquence. 

"Colonel  O'Rourke,"  he  announced  pompously,  "you 
are  to  be  Commander-in-chief  of  my  forces,  with  the  pay  of  a 
corps  commander  of  the  French  Army.  Do  you  accept  ?  " 

[63] 


Terence  O'Rourke,  Gentleman  Adventurer 

"Faith,"  said  O'Rourke  rising,  "I  do  that.  Tis  a  great 
scheme  ye  have,  monsieur." 

He  filled  him  a  glass  of  champagne,  turning  to  the  others. 

"Messieurs,"  he  said,  "I  give  ye  the  health  of  Monsieur 
Lemercier!" 

"No!"  interposed  the  prince,  also  rising  with  his  glass. 
"You  forget,  Colonel  O'Rourke.  The  health  we  drink  is  the 
health  of  Leopold  le  Premier,  1'Empereur  du  Sahara!" 

He  flashed  a  hinting  glance  to  the  others;  they,  too,  rose, 
with  bravos,  and  drank  standing. 

O'Rourke's  gaze  fell  upon  the  stripling,  wine-flushed  and 
staggering,  complacent  and  conceited  —  a  mere  vain  child, 
dreaming  of  empire  as  a  plaything  for  his  vanity. 

And  then  the  eyes  of  the  Irishman  turned  to  the  others  — 
the  motley,  self-centered  crew  of  leeches,  who,  to  this  vapid 
youth  of  a  multi-millionaire,  bent  "the  pregnant  hinges  of 
the  knee,  that  thrift  might  follow  fawning." 

It  nauseated  him ;  he  put  down  his  glass,  and  for  a  moment 
watched  the  cold,  calculating,  sardonic  Prince  de  Grandlieu, 
who  was,  with  meaning  glances,  showing  the  way  to  his  asso- 
ciates to  half  madden  le  petit  Lemercier  with  flattery.  And 
the  warning  of  that  man's  wife,  of  the  princess,  recurred  to 
the  Irishman.  Again  disgust  stirred  him. 

"The  divvle!"  he  muttered.  "I'm  in  for  it.  Sure,  there 
will  be  fighting,  or  I'm  no  O'Rourke!" 

But  his  thoughts  were  concerning  themselves  with  Cham- 
bret  and  Felix  of  Grandlieu.  The  more  that  he  had  occasion 
to  consider  them,  at  that  time,  the  more  thoroughly  he  be- 
came convinced  that  there  would  be  much  fighting  ere  he  was 
done  with  them. 


[64] 


CHAPTER  VIII 

HE  COMES  UPON  THE  RED-HEADED  ONE 

THUS  it  was  plotted;  and  in  such  wise  Colonel  Terence 
O'Rourke  came  to  cast  his  fortunes  with  those  of  that  man 
concerning  whom  the  Parisian  boulevards  were  soon  again  to 
be  gossiping  —  the  youth  who  called  himself  Leopold  the 
First,  Emperor  of  the  Sahara. 

Their  conference  lasted  into  a  late  hour  of  the  next  morn- 
ing; the  conspirators  breakfasted  together,  gathering  up  the 
loose  ends  of  their  scheme  and  giving  and  receiving  final 
suggestions  and  instructions. 

It  had  been  settled  that  O'Rourke  was  to  be  Commander- 
in-chief,  with  the  title  of  Lieutenant-General,  of  the  forces 
presently  to  be  assembled  on  the  west  coast  of  the  Sahara 
Desert. 

Monsieur  le  Prince  de  Grandlieu  was  to  be  chief  adviser  to 
his  majesty- to-be;  when  the  government  was  finally  organized 
he  was  to  be  Premier. 

Monsieur  Valliant,  who,  it  appeared,  was  a  member  of  the 
French  bar,  received  the  appointment  of  chief  justice  of  the 
Empire  —  when  it  should  exist  and  the  administration  of 
justice  should  become  necessary.  In  the  meantime,  he  was 
to  remain  in  Paris,  and,  with  the  help  of  associates  (whose 
salaries,  be  sure,  were  to  come  out  of  the  pocket  of  le  petit 
Lemercier),  formulate  a  Code  Leopoldan;  a  judicial  system 
which  was  expected  to  combine  all  the  good  points  of  existing 
legal  codes  and  to  contain  none  of  their  defects. 

[65] 


Terence  O'Rourke,  Gentleman  Adventurer 

Messieurs  Mouchon  and  D'Ervy  were  to  rejoice  respect- 
ively in  the  portfolios  of  commerce  and  agriculture  —  their 
absolute  unfitness  for  the  holding  of  any  office  whatsoever 
being  to  all  appearances  their  greatest  recommendation  in  the 
eyes  of  Lemercier. 

It  was  understood  that  the  two  latter  gentlemen  wer*  to 
collaborate,  at  first,  in  the  work  of  enticing  colonists  to  the 
promised  land;  and  they  also  had  charge  of  the  purchase  of 
all  supplies  for  the  new  empire  —  a  sinecure  in  which 
O'Rourke  shrewdly  scented  large  and  gratifying  "commis- 
sions" for  the  purses  of  the  two  secretaries. 

But  the  Irishman  had  little  time  in  which  to  criticise  or 
to  pass  judgment  upon  his  associates.  He  was  ordered  im- 
mediately to  the  south  of  France  for  the  purpose  of  recruiting 
troops. 

He  had  one  week  for  his  task;  it  was  the  sense  of  the  con- 
clave that  forty  picked  men  would  be  required  for  the  work 
of  annexing  the  sands  of  the  Sahara,  and  in  the  judgment  of 
O'Rourke  this  number  was  none  too  large,  if  the  expedition 
was  to  lack  that  element  of  opera  boufje  which  he  feared 
would  prove  one  of  its  integral  parts. 

It  was  characteristic  of  the  adventurer  that,  little  faith  as 
he  had,  on  calm  reflection,  in  the  imperial  scheme  of  Mon- 
sieur le  petit  Lemercier,  he  threw  himself  into  his  work  heart 
and  soul,  determined  that,  should  failure  come  to  his  em- 
ployer, it  would  be  through  no  fault  of  his. 

He  sent  to  his  lodgings  for  a  change  of  clothes,  which  was 
brought  him  while  breakfasting.  When  through  he  took  the 
first  express  to  Marseilles,  having  been  provided  with  funds 
and  authorized  to  draw  upon  Lemercier  should  that  become 
necessary. 

Once  in  Marseilles,  he  set  about  his  work  with  the  sys- 

[66] 


He  Comes  upcn  the  Red-headed  One 

tematic  energy  of  a  born  organizer  and  old  campaigner;  he 
knew  his  ground  thoroughly,  had  full  powers  to  work  as  a 
free  agent  and  to  offer  liberal  inducements,  the  better  to 
enlist  the  finest  body  of  men  that  could  be  found  either  within 
or  without  the  borders  of  the  French  Republic. 

In  such  case  he  felt  that  success  was  assured  from  the 
start,  so  far  as  he  personally  was  concerned;  in  five  days  he 
had  his  force  complete  —  chiefly  composed  of  seasoned 
veterans. 

Ex-Spahis  from  the  Soudan  were  there,  and  swart  Turcos 
—  lean,  brown,  lithe,  and  wiry  little  fellows,  all  of  them  ready 
to  fight  at  the  drop  of  a  handkerchief;  discharged  artillery- 
men and  marines  of  the  republic;  and,  for  leaven,  a  sprink- 
ling of  his  own  countrymen,  together  with  a  few  adventurous 
spirits  —  mercenaries  —  of  other  lands:  a  villainous-looking 
gang,  taken  as  a  whole,  fearing  God  nor  man  nor  devil,  fight- 
ers born,  every  mother's  son,  ready  to  fight  for  the  highest 
bidder  or  for  the  pure  love  of  battle;  but,  for  the  most  part  of 
them,  brave  and  loyal  to  their  masters  for  the  time  being,  to 
be  depended  upon  in  any  emergency. 

Thirty-nine  were  they  of  the  rank  and  file;  over  whom,  as 
his  lieutenant,  with  the  rank  of  captain,  he  placed  one  Daniel 
Mahone  —  familiarly  known  as  "Danny":  a  red-headed 
chunk  of  an  Irish  lad,  according  to  O'Rourke's  description, 
who  had  been  the  adventurer's  body-servant  in  days  gone  by, 
when  O'Rourke  had  been  more  prosperous. 

Of  late,  they  had  been  separated  by  stress  of  circumstance, 
which  had  forced  Danny  to  strike  out  for  the  wherewithal  to 
stay  his  own  stomach,  since  he  might  no  longer  depend  upon 
the  bounty  of  the  O'Rourke  of  Castle  O'Rourke  (under  the 
very  shadow  of  whose  walls  Danny  had  been  born  and 
brought  up). 

[67] 


Tereme  O'Rourke,  Gentleman  Adventurer 

Red-headed  he  certainly  was,  this  Danny,  according  to  all 
accounts,  and  hot-headed,  too;  but  cool  and  temperate  in  his 
element,  which  was  time  of  danger,  and  no  man  ever  served 
a  master  more  loyally  and  devotedly  than  Danny  had  served 
and  was  destined  to  serve  O'Rourke. 

The  adventurer  had  come  upon  him  wandering  disconso- 
lately about  on  the  docks  of  Marseilles,  looking  —  and,  it 
appeared,  with  ill  success  —  for  a  berth  on  a  Mediterranean 
coaster.  And  the  lure  of  gold  had  been  no  more  potent  than 
the  lure  of  devotion  which  brought  him  back  into  O'Rourke's 
service.  The  master  took  occasion  quietly  to  congratulate 
himself  upon  the  acquisition  of  this  invaluable  man;  nor  was 
his  joy  premature. 

In  small  batches,  the  better  to  excite  no  comment,  the  mer- 
cenaries of  the  proposed  "standing  army"  were  shipped  to 
Las  Palmas,  with  instructions  to  await  their  commander  in 
that  town.  O'Rourke  trusted  to  the  moral  influence  of 
Danny's  temper  and  ready  fists  to  keep  the  rabble  in  order 
and  moderately  sober  until  the  time  when  he  himself  should 
go  to  Las  Palmas  to  take  charge,  or  until  the  coming  of  the 
Eirene,  le  petit  Lemercier's  colossal  private  steam  yacht. 

Upon  this  vessel,  whereon  were  expected  Lemercier,  Grand- 
lieu,  Mouchon,  and  D'Ervy,  O'Rourke's  mercenaries  were  to 
embark  for  Cape  Juby  and  the  Wadi  Saglat  el  Hamra,  in  the 
neighborhood  of  which  was  the  rumored  oasis  that  was  to 
form  the  site  of  the  future  capital  of  the  Saharan  Empire. 

About  the  first  of  June  the  last  of  his  men  were  despatched 
to  Las  Palmas;  a  day  or  so  later  O'Rourke  followed  them, 
per  packet. 

He  arrived  at  the  Puerto  de  la  Luz  on  a  simmering  night, 
and  at  once  had  himself  conveyed  to  the  city  of  Las  Palmas 
itself. 

F68] 


CHAPTER  IX 

HE  DEMONSTRATES  THE  USES  OF  DISCIPLINE 

BY  night  Las  Palmas  much  resembles  almost  any  other 
Spanish  colonial  city  in  a  semi-tropical  land ;  select  at  random 
a  city  of  equal  size  from  any  of  the  Spanish-American  coun- 
tries, transplant  it  bodily  to  an  island  of  volcanic  origin  and 
with  sparse  vegetation,  and  you  have  Las  Palmas  of  the  Gran 
Canaria. 

There  is  the  inevitable  plaza,  with  its  despondent  garden 
and  its  iron  railings;  there  is  the  inevitable  palatial  residence 
of  the  governor;  there  are  the  cafe's  and  restaurants,  the  munic- 
ipal band  that  executes  by  night,  the  senoritas  with  their 
immense,  fanlike  tortoise-shell  combs  and  their  mantillas, 
the  senors  adorned  in  white  ducks  and  cigarettes,  the  heat, 
the  languor,  the  spirit  of  manana  ana  dolce  far  niente. 

The  nights  are  long,  warm  and  sticky,  and  sickly  sweet ;  the 
darkness  is  so  soft  and  so  thick  as  to  seem  well-nigh  palpable; 
the  sky  hangs  low,  and  velvety,  sewn  thick  with  huge  stars. 

It  was  on  such  a  night  that  O'Rourke  arrived.  On  the 
way  to  his  hotel  he  kept  his  eyes  open  for  members  of  his 
corps,  but  saw  none  of  them. 

He  was  disturbed;  Las  Palmas  is  not  a  metropolis  so  great 
that  forty  fighting  men  can  be  set  down  within  its  boundaries 
without  creating  comment. 

Nor  is  it  so  puritanical  in  atmosphere  that  forty  fighting 
men  with  graduated  thirsts  and  eruptive  dispositions  are  like 
to  become  childlike  once  under  its  influence  —  to  content 

[69] 


Terence  O'Rourke,  Gentleman  Adventurer 

them  with  a  diet  of  cow's  milk  and  crackers,  to  sleep  and 
spend  their  days  in  the  ordinary  processes  of  tourist  sight- 
seeing. 

O'Rourke  knew  his  men  well  —  that  was  why  he  had 
chosen  them;  with  him  at  their  head  he  had  little  fear  of 
trouble,  for  he  was  wont  to  command  with  a  firm  hand,  and 
they  were  accustomed  to  be  commanded  by  him  or  by  men  of 
his  resolute  stamp. 

But,  with  Danny  alone  to  keep  them  in  order  —  Danny 
himself  of  a  nature  none  too  pacific,  and,  as  they  would  be 
bound  to  consider,  merely  by  chance  of  favoritism  their  su- 
perior officer  —  O'Rourke  was  by  no  means  satisfied  that  his 
lambs  were  being  safely  shepherded. 

Nor  was  he  uneasy  without  reason. 

His  carriage  rolled  through  the  winding,  darksome  streets 
—  strangely  quiet,  thought  the  perturbed  Irishman  —  swiftly 
from  the  boat  landing  to  the  Grand  Hotel.  O'Rourke  leaned 
back  in  the  seat,  alertly  on  the  lookout,  chewing  a  cold  cigar. 
But  not  a  sound  nor  a  sight  of  his  command  could  he  dis- 
cover; he  swore  softly,  bit  the  cigar  in  two  in  his  agitation, 
threw  it  away,  and  set  his  lips  in  a  firm  line. 

He  realized  that  his  work  now  lay  to  his  hand;  and  he  was 
promising  himself  that,  should  Danny  have  failed  dismally, 
there  would  be  a  new  second  in  command  before  another  sun 
had  time  to  rise. 

The  Eirene  was  due  to  make  port  about  the  following  noon, 
if  the  schedule  of  le  petit  Lemercier  went  through  without 
change;  by  that  hour,  if  O'Rourke  was  to  demonstrate  his 
fitness  for  his  position,  peace  must  obtain  among  the  mer- 
cenaries, a  united,  complete  and  lamblike  corps  must  be  ready 
to  salute  its  employer. 

He  alighted  from  the  carriage,  in  front  of  the  hotel,  paid 

[7o] 


He  Demonstrates  the  Uses  of  Discipline 

the  driver,  surrendered  his  light  luggage  to  the  attendants, 
and  turned  to  look  out  over  the  plaza.  Now,  the  plaza  itself 
was  lively  enough;  the  band  was  playing  an  explosive  Spanish 
national  air;  the  lights  were  blazing  in  the  cafes  and  before 
the  residence  of  the  governor;  the  crowds  were  parading, 
smoking,  laughing,  chattering,  flirting  —  the  walks  thronged 
with  the  volatile,  light-hearted  inhabitants  taking  their  con- 
stitutionals in  the  only  cool  hours  of  the  day. 

From  the  middle  of  the  plaza  two  men  emerged,  arm  and 
arm,  strolling  toward  the  hotel;  two  men  in  the  ragged  uni- 
forms of  Turcos,  respectably  amusing  themselves  and  — 
O'Rourke  thanked  high  Heaven  —  sober! 

He  waited  for  them;  they  approached  slowly,  suddenly 
became  aware  of  the  military  figure  of  their  commander, 
dropped  their  arms,  stood  at  attention  and  saluted. 

O'Rourke  returned  the  salute. 

" Bon  jour,  mes  braves!"  he  greeted  them,  endeavoring  to 
show  no  trace  of  his  worriment.  "Where  are  ye  quartered  ?  " 

They  indicated  a  side  street. 

"Your  captain?"  he  inquired. 

There  was  silence  for  an  answer;  the  two  Turcos  glanced 
uneasily  from  their  commander  to  one  another,  and  hung 
their  heads. 

O'Rourke  briefly  repeated  his  question.  One  of  the  Tur- 
cos stepped  forward,  saluted  again,  and  reported  with  a  mili- 
tary brevity  which  won  O'Rourke's  approval,  if  the  tidings 
he  heard  were  ill. 

The  two,  they  asserted,  were  of  the  last  party  to  arrive  at 
Las  Palmas;  they  therefore  spoke  on  hearsay  knowledge,  for 
the  most  part.  Among  the  first  ten  men,  whom  Danny  had 
accompanied,  peace  and  good  feeling  had  obtained  until  the 
arrival  of  the  second  detachment  of  fifteen.  The  twenty-five 


Terence  O'Rourke,  Gentleman  Adventurer 

had,  according  to  good  military  usage,  fraternized;  despite 
Danny's  prohibitive  orders,  they  proceeded  to  take  possession 
of  the  town.  To  this  the  authorities  had  made  no  objection, 
at  first;  the  five  and  twenty  were  not  overly  well  supplied  with 
ready  money;  a  mercenary  rarely  is  so  when  he  enlists;  they 
spent  what  they  had,  but  it  was  not  enough  to  fire  their  mar- 
tial spirits  to  the  fighting  point. 

With  the  coming  of  the  third  instalment  of  legionaries  — 
ten  more  men  —  there  had  been  disorder,  however  (the  Tur- 
cos  regretted  to  state).  Among  them  had  been  one  with  much 
money  —  a  Frenchman  who  had  served  in  the  desert.  The 
Turcos  were  desolated  to  admit  it,  but  their  comrades  had 
become  disgracefully  intoxicated. 

Captain  Mahone  had  done  his  utmost  to  quell  the  disturb- 
ance; one  man  against  thirty-five,  however,  is  at  an  obvious 
and  undeniable  disadvantage.  By  the  time  of  the  arrival  of 
the  last  five  men  he  was  struggling  vainly  against  fate  and 
overwhelming  numbers. 

The  men  were  drinking,  and  anarchy  threatened  in  the 
peaceful  island  of  Gran  Canaria.  The  authorities  were 
scared  and  powerless. 

Mahone,  almost  at  his  wits'  end,  had  connived  with  the 
five  and  the  gendarmes.  Fortunately,  the  rejoicing  ones 
were  unarmed.  That  simplified  matters  considerably.  At 
the  head  of  his  five  —  with  the  police  politely  umpiring  the 
game  —  he  descended  upon  the  roisterers  and  gave  them 
battle. 

The  Turcos  sighed  regretfully;  from  what  they  said 
O'Rourke  gathered  that  it  had  been  a  joyous  conflict,  lasting 
many  hours,  fought  freely  and  fairly  throughout  the  many 
narrow  thoroughfares  of  Las  Palmas;  it  was  not  often, 
averred  the  Turcos  ruefully,  that  one  came  upon  so  satisfy- 

[72] 


He  Demonstrates  the  Uses  of  Discipline 

ing  a  fight  in  times  of  peace.  They  licked  their  lips  remi- 
niscently,  as  men  who  remember  a  favorite  dish. 

Fortunately,  the  day  had  been  for  the  lawful;  one  by  one  at 
first,  later  by  twos  and  threes,  finally  by  squads,  the  legion- 
aries had  been  overcome,  even  to  the  thirty-fifth  man,  and 
kicked  into  the  car  eel. 

"But  Mahone?"  demanded  O'Rourke. 

It  was  terrible,  the  Turcos  admitted,  but  by  grave  misfor- 
tune the  attire  of  the  Captain  Mahone  had  become  disordered 
in  the  melee;  the  police  had  been  unwilling  to  discriminate 
between  him  and  his  soldiers,  saying  that  one  so  disreputable 
in  appearance  deserved  imprisonment  at  the  least,  on  general 
principles.  For  two  days  the  captain  had  been  disciplining 
his  troops  in  the  carcel. 

O'Rourke  laughed,  his  heart  suddenly  lightened.  They 
were  by  now  sober,  in  such  case;  and  Danny  had  undoubtedly 
succeeded  in  reducing  them  to  submissiveness.  On  the  mor- 
row O'Rourke  would  go  to  the  governor,  pay  their  fines  and 
procure  their  releases. 

He  tipped  the  Turcos  liberally,  ordered  them  to  report  to 
him  in  the  morning,  and  went  to  bed  with  a  lightened  heart, 
to  sleep  soundly  the  night  through,  and  wake  with  his  cam- 
paign planned  to  his  satisfaction. 

During  his  breakfast  a  man  entered  the  dining-room  of 
the  hotel,  walked  directly  to  his  table  and  tapped  O'Rourke 
on  the  shoulder.  The  Irishman  looked  up  in  surprise,  then 
jumped  to  his  feet.  It  was  Chambret. 

"You  here,  monsieur?"  cried  O'Rourke. 

"  Precisely,  monsieur  —  as  a  colonist. " 

"  Sit  down  and  join  me,"  the  Irishman  invited  him. 

"Thank  you,  but  I  have  just  breakfasted  on  the  yacht" 

"The  yacht?" 

[73] 


Terence  O'Rourke,  Gentleman  Adventurer 

"The  Eirene,  monsieur." 

Chambret  took  a  chair  and  seated  himself,  smiling  pleas- 
antly because  of  O'Rourke's  bewilderment. 

"  I  do  not  understand,"  admitted  the  latter.  "  The  Eirene? 
A  colonist?  But  I  thought  ye — " 

"That  I  was  at  odds  with  the  little  emperor,  monsieur? 
That  I  disapproved  of  his  enterprise?"  Chambret's  mood 
was  of  the  most  friendly,  judging  from  his  expression  —  and 
that  notwithstanding  the  peculiar  circumstances  attendant 
upon  the  last  encounter  of  the  two. 

"There  you  are  right,  monsieur,"  he  went  on.  "It's  folly 
—  madness.  The  scheme  will  never  succeed;  it  spells  'Ruin' 
for  Monsieur  Lemercier.  Nevertheless — ".  He  hesitated. 

"Proceed,  if  ye  please,"  begged  the  Irishman,  striving  to 
conceal  his  astonishment,  and  entirely  unable  to  understand 
this  move  of  Chambret's. 

"Nevertheless,  upon  reflection  I  have  been  led  to  change 
my  mind.  You  behold  in  me,  Monsieur  O'Rourke,  the  first 
colonist  of  P Empire  du  Sahara!" 

O'Rourke  put  down  his  knife  and  fork,  tipped  back  in  his 
chair,  and  accepted  the  cigar  which  the  Frenchman  offered 
him. 

"Chambret,"  he  said  slowly,  "I'm  playing  a  lone  hand  in 
this  game.  I  hardly  know  what  is  trumps.  Ye  know  the 
sole  consideration  that  induced  me  to  draw  cards?  No? 
I'll  tell  ye  candidly.  'Tis  just  what  I  believe  is  keeping  ye 
in  the  affair:  the  desire  to  serve  Madame  la  Princesse.  So 
far  as  meself  can  judge  from  the  backs  of  your  cards  and 
the  way  ye  play  them,  that  is  your  motive,  also." 

He  fixed  his  gaze  upon  the  eyes  of  the  other,  which  met  his 
regard  unflinchingly.  "Listen,  mine  enemy.  We  have  had 
our  differences,  ye  and  I.  Let  them  pass,  for  the  time  being; 


He  Demonstrates  the  Uses  of  Discipline 

at  the  end  of  this  affair  we'll  balance  accounts;  I'm  thinking 
that  'tis  me  own  turn  now  to  demand  satisfaction,  and  I'll 
claim  it  when  the  time  comes." 

"Monsieur  will  find  me  ready,"  interjected  Chambret, 
with  composure. 

"Very  good ;  but  —  let  it  pass,  as  I've  said.  At  present  we 
two  have  a  mutual  object  in  view,  a  common  quarrel.  Let 
us  combine  forces.  Let  us  play  partners  against  the  pack  of 
'em.  Show  me  your  cards,  and  I'll  show  ye  mine." 

Chambret's  answer  was  instantaneous:  a  hand  proffered 
O'Rourke. 

"The  proposition,"  he  said  warmly,  "would  have  come 
from  me  had  it  not  come  from  you,  monsieur.  It  was  de- 
cided upon  between  madame  and  myself  en  voyage." 

"What!"    O'Rourke  colored.    "Madame  —  ?" 

Chambret  laughed  lightly.  "One  moment,  monsieur  — 
I  begin  at  the  beginning  of  my  account.  In  the  first  place, 
Madame  la  Princesse  has  full  confidence  in  you,  monsieur, 
as,  you  will  permit  me  to  add,  have  I.  Nevertheless,  it  has 
seemed  advisable  to  us  both  that  you  should  have  reinforce- 
ments —  backing,  I  think  you  term  it." 

"'Tis  that  I  need,"  assented  O'Rourke. 

"  For  this  consideration  I  went  to  madame's  brother,  Leo- 
pold, feigned  interest  in  his  plans,  and  offered  myself  as  his 
first  colonist.  He  was  overjoyed  —  received  me  with  open 
arms.  At  the  same  time,  madame  decided  to  accompany 
Monsieur  le  Prince,  her  husband,  upon  his  journey  —  and 
insisted,  despite  his  pronounced  opposition.  This  morning, 
the  Eirene,  bearing  us  all,  made  this  port.  The  situation, 
monsieur,  is  this:  Prince  Felix  conspires  for  the  death  —  I 
speak  bluntly  —  of  his  brother-in-law.  The  reason  is 
simpler  madame  is  her  brother's  heir;  Felix  already  has  run 

[75] 


Terence  O'Rourke,  Gentleman  Adventurer 

through  madame's  fortune,  and  counts  on  enjoying  Leopold's 
when  she  comes  into  her  inheritance.  You  comprehend  ?  " 

"The  hound!"  O'Rourke  growled  between  his  teeth. 

"Precisely.  My  cards  (as  you  call  them,  monsieur), 
consist  simply  of  my  skill  as  a  pistol  shot,  of  which  you 
have  some  knowledge.  Monsieur  le  Prince  is  a  noted  duel- 
ist; Monsieur  le  Prince  has  no  liking  for  me,  as  you  may 
guess.  He  will  seize  the  first  opportunity  of  calling  me 
out.  In  that  event  the  end  is  a  foregone  conclusion,  I  flatter 
myself." 

"It  should  be,"  O'Rourke  agreed.  "Faith,  when  we  two 
fight,  monsieur,  'twill  be  with  rapiers." 

Chambret  bowed  courteously.  "It  is  your  choice,"  he 
assented  gravely.  "But  now,  my  friend,  you  understand 
my  position.  To  follow  out  your  simile,  monsieur,  will  you 
disclose  your  own  hand?" 

"I  will  that,"  affirmed  O'Rourke.  "Come  with  me,  if  ye 
please." 

In  the  patio  of  the  hotel  his  two  Turcos  were  waiting,  with 
their  comrades  —  three  grim  Spahis.  He  signed  to  them  to 
follow,  and  went  out  into  the  plaza  with  Chambret. 

"Monsieur  Lemercier  sent  ye  to  look  me  up,  I  presume?" 
he  inquired  of  the  mystified  Frenchman. 

"Yes,  monsieur.  I  came  ashore  to  see  if  you  had  arrived 
as  yet;  and,  if  you  had,  with  instructions  to  tell  you  to  bring 
your  command  to  the  yacht  at  once." 

"Monsieur  1'Empereur  is  contemplating  no  delay,  then?" 
pursued  O'Rourke,  leading  the  way  across  the  square  to  the 
residence  of  the  governor. 

"He  is  rapt  with  visions  of  his  future  glory,"  laughed 
Chambret:  "impatient  for  his  scepter  and  purple  raiment." 

O'Rourke  turned  and  passed  into  the  patio  of  the  govern- 

[76] 


He  Demonstrates  tfte  Uses  of  Discipline 

ment  house.  Chambret,  troubled  by  his  companion's  reti- 
cence in  this  time  of  confidences,  put  a  hand  upon  his  arm. 

"But,  monsieur,"  he  objected,  "this  is  not  reciprocation 
of  my  frankness  ?  " 

"In  half  an  hour,"  promised  O'Rourke,  "then  ye  shall  un- 
derstand me." 

He  begged  an  audience  with  the  governor,  stating  his  busi- 
ness; under  the  circumstances  that  harassed  official  delayed 
not  a  moment  in  according  the  honor,  despite  the  unholy 
eariiness  of  the  hour  for  the  transaction  of  business  —  ac- 
cording to  Spanish  notions.  It  was  soon  settled;  upon 
O'Rourke  giving  his  word  of  honor  that  he  would  imme- 
diately take  the  thirty-five  mercenaries  out  of  the  island,  he 
was  permitted  to  pay  their  fines  and  received  an  order  on  the 
jailer  of  the  carcel  for  their  immediate  delivery. 

Still,  accompanied  by  Chambret  and  followed  by  the  Tur- 
cos  and  Spahis,  he  proceeded  to  the  carcel  itself  —  a  gloomy, 
shedlike  structure,  more  resembling  a  pig-pen  than  a  munic- 
ipal prison  in  a  civilized  age. 

Their  arrival  was  timed  at  a  critical  moment  —  for  the 
jailer;  breakfast,  or  what  passed  for  it,  was  being  distributed 
to  the  prisoners;  when  still  blocks  away  the  ears  of  O'Rourke 
and  his  party  were  assailed  with  an  indescribable  chorus  of 
shrieks,  oaths,  growlings,  and  grunts  that  proclaimed  the 
supreme  joy  of  the  incarcerated  at  the  sight  of  food  —  or, 
possibly,  other  emotions  that  had  been  roused  by  the  quality 
of  the  meal. 

"Me  angels,"  indicated  O'Rourke,  with  a  smile. 

"Certainly  their  singing  is  heavenly,"  agreed  Chambret. 

Admitted  by  the  jailer  —  a  surly,  low-browed  Spaniard, 
who  gave  sincere  thanks  to  the  entire  body  celestial  for  this 
opportune  blessing  —  they  passed  into  the  building.  Its 

[77] 


Terence  O'Rourke,  Gentleman  Adventurer 

center  —  for  it  was  but  an  enclosure,  open  to  the  sky  save 
around  the  walls,  where  a  partial  roofing  served  as  protection 
from  the  elements  —  they  found  occupied  by  a  swirling, 
seething  mass  of  men,  from  whose  throats  proceeded  the 
unearthly  concert.  It  was  surrounded  by  a  dense  cloud  of 
dust;  and  from  its  midst  there  proceeded  a  veritable  eruption 
of  fists,  fragments  of  torn  clothing,  hats  and  bones. 

Slightly  in  advance  of  his  companions,  O'Rourke  halted, 
his  presence  for  the  time  being  unremarked  of  the  combat- 
ants. He  watched  them  in  silence  for  a  little  while,  his  lips 
curving  into  a  grim  smile. 

Finally,  however,  raising  his  walking-stick  —  a  slim  wand 
—  he  opened  his  mouth,  and  let  out  a  stentorian  command: 

"Fall  in  1" 

In  the  excitement  it  went  unheeded.  Again  he  called, 
and  again : 

"Fall  in!    Fall  in  I" 

Gradually  his  voice  carried  meaning  to  the  intelligence  of 
the  rabble.  One  turned,  saw  the  motionless,  commanding 
figure  of  the  newcomer;  he  shrieked  the  news  to  his  com- 
Tades.  Others  observed.  By  degrees  the  tumult  died. 

At  the  third  command  they  were  quiet,  with  one  accord 
turning  to  gape  at  this  rash  intruder.  Suddenly  he  was  recog- 
nized; at  the  fourth  command  the  trained  soldiers  sprang  to 
their  places  as  if  electrified  —  one  long  line  of  thirty-nine 
figures  stretching  across  the  patio. 

"Attention!"  roared  O'Rourke  angrily.  ''Silence  in  the 
ranks!" 

There  was  not  a  whisper  to  be  heard,  where  had  been  the 
uproar  of  a  chaos. 

"Captain  Mahone?"  he  demanded. 

From  around  the  end  of  the  line  appeared  the  shape  of  a 

[78] 


He  Demonstrates  the  Uses  of  Discipline 

man  whom  O'Rourke  entirely  failed  to  recognize  at  first 
glance.  Presently  he  placed  him.  Danny,  but  Danny  well- 
nigh  disintegrated  —  a  Danny  clothed  in  rags  and  tatters, 
with  two  black  eyes  and  a  face  swollen  and  misshapen  from 
cuts  and  bruises.  One  of  his  arms  hung  in  a  sling;  the  other 
he  raised  to  salute. 

"Yer  honor!"  he  responded,  out  of  one  side  of  his  mouth. 

"Be  silent!"  cried  O'Rourke.  He  walked  down  the  line, 
sternly  examining  each  man  as  he  passed.  They  remained 
stiffly  at  attention,  eyes  to  the  front  —  soldiers  all  in  the 
presence  of  their  commander. 

O'Rourke  returned  to  the  center  of  the  line. 

"Danny,"  he  inquired,  "how  did  this  come  about?'* 

"Yer  honor  —  faith!  Gineral  O'Rourke,  I  mane  —  'tis 
the  forchunes  av  war-r,  sor.  Wan  av  the  prisoners  had  a 
wad  av  money,  sor,  an'  wid  this  an'  wid  that  trick  'twas  him- 
self that  conthrived  to  get  liquor  smuggled  into  th'  place  ivery 
noight.  As  f'r  meself,  sor,  I've  been  thryin'  to  lick  thim  into 
shape  for  yez.  Some  av  them  I've  licked  twice  over,  but  it 
does  no  good,  sor." 

"That  will  do.    Who  is  this  wealthy  volunteer?" 

There  was  a  moment's  silence,  a  hesitation;  then  slowly  a 
man  slouched  forward,  saluting  carelessly.  O'Rourke 
watched  him  like  a  cat,  his  brows  contracting. 

"Your  name?"  he  asked  sharply. 

"Soly,"  responded  the  fellow  insolently. 

O'Rourke  took  thought. 

"If  I  mistake  not,"  he  said,  "ye  came  to  me  in  Marseilles 
with  a  letter  of  recommendation  from  Monsieur  le  Prince 
de  Grandlieu." 

"  Monsieur  is  correct  in  his  surmise," 

"Where  did  ye  serve  last?" 

[791 


Terence  O'Rourke,  Gentleman  Adventurer 

"In  Algiers." 

"In  the  camel  corps?" 

"Yes." 

"A  sans  souci?"  thundered  O'Rourke,  naming  that  branch 
of  the  French  service  to  which  criminals  and  deserters  are 
condemned. 

"What  of  that?" 

O'Rourke  made  no  verbal  reply.  He  approached  the 
man,  dropping  his  cane;  the  fellow  must  have  anticipated 
what  was  coming,  for  he  sprang  suddenly  at  O'Rourke, 
flourishing  a  knife. 

Before  he  realized  what  had  happened,  he  was  on  his  back, 
his  wrist  held  as  though  in  a  vise;  the  knife  was  wrested 
from  him,  and  pocketed  by  O'Rourke. 

"Get  up!"  commanded  the  Irishman. 

The  malcontent  arose,  mumbling  guttural  threats,  brush- 
ing the  filth  of  the  prison  from  his  clothes.  When  erect  a 
clenched  fist  caught  him  in  the  mouth,  knocking  him  flat; 
he  arose  again,  was  bowled  over  again.  Finally: 

"Are  ye  satisfied,  canaille?"  snarled  O'Rourke. 

The  man  drew  himself  up,  saluted. 

"Oui,  mon  commandant!"  he  said  clearly. 

O'Rourke  turned  to  the  motionless  line;  not  one  man  had 
moved  to  the  aid  of  his  comrade. 

"Are  there  any  more  of  ye,  mes  enfants"  he  inquired, 
sweetly,  "who  desire  to  taste  of  me  discipline?" 

The  answer  was  an  unanimous  shout. 

"Non,  monsieur  le  commandant!" 

"Ye  are  ready  to  follow  me,  at  me  command?" 

The  shout  swelled  to  a  roar. 

"To  the  death,  monsieur!" 

"Very  well.  Captain  Mahone,  form  your  men  in  fours, 

[80] 


He  Demonstrates  the  Uses  of  Discipline 

and  march  them  to  the  landing.  Let  no  man  dare  to  fall  out 
on  the  way!" 

Danny  wheeled  about,  raised  his  hand  and  issued  the 
command.  In  ten  ranks  of  four  men  each,  the  lines  tramped 
out  of  the  prison.  O'Rourke  watched  in  grim  quiet,  his 
eyes  testifying  to  his  satisfaction  as  to  the  qualities  of  his 
"children." 

"  Spirited,  ye  see,"  he  told  Chambret,  as  they  left.  "  Those, 
monsieur,  are  me  cards!"  he  added. 

The  Frenchman  nodded.  "You  play  with  a  full  hand, 
monsieur,"  he  said;  "thirty-nine  cards  —  all  trumps!" 


[81] 


CHAPTER  X 

HE  TAKES  COMMAND 

IN  the  northwest  a  drift  of  inky  smoke  trailed  just  above 
the  horizon;  otherwise  there  was  no  sign  of  man  nor  of  life  on 
the  sea,  save  for  the  Eirene,  fighting  forward  on  her  way 
thrilling  with  the  vibration  of  the  screws,  panting  hoarsely, 
ramming  her  keen  nose  into  the  sullen,  strong  swells. 

On  her  decks  men  clustered  like  flies  wherever  a  bit  of 
shade  was  to  be  had;  but  men  motionless,  staring  ahead  with 
straining  eyes,  reluctant  to  lif t  a  finger  —  crushed  by  the 
oppression  of  the  heat. 

Where  the  sun  struck  the  pitch  bubbled  in  the  planks;  iron 
stays  and  brass  fittings  were  so  hot  that  they  blistered  the 
hand  that  incautiously  touched  them.  The  man  at  the  wheel 
dripped,  bathed  in  perspiration,  his  thin  shirt  and  light  duck 
trousers  sodden  with  moisture,  his  face  a  dull,  reddish  purple 
in  color.  By  his  side  an  officer  languished,  opening  his 
mouth  regretfully  to  deliver  low-voiced  orders.  Everyone, 
man  and  master,  was  sunk  deep  in  a  daze  of  suffering  caused 
by  the  heat. 

Madame  la  Princesse  kept  to  her  stateroom;  Mouchon, 
D'Ervy,  the  prince,  and  Chambret  lounged  listless  in  the 
main  saloon,  hugging  the  windows  for  a  breath  of  air;  in  the 
chartroom  le  petit  Lemercier  hung  over  the  table,  his  eyes 
glued  in  fascination  upon  a  map  of  the  adjacent  littoral.  The 
captain  leaned  over  his  shoulder,  poising  a  pair  of  compasses 
to  indicate  a  particular  spot  on  the  map. 

[82] 


He  Takes  Command 

"If  your  information  is  correct,  monsieur,"  he  said,  "here 
is  the  oasis.  Here  should  be  the  mouth  of  the  Wadi  Saglat 

—  and  here  is  the  Eirene." 

"So  near?"  breathed  the  visionary.     "So  near?" 

"  In  two  hours,  monsieur,  we  make  the  coast." 

"Yes  —  yes,"  responded  Lemercier,  devouring  the  map 

—  his  future  empire '  —  with  his  gaze. 

Some  minutes  passed,  the  captain  waiting  with  his  head  to 
one  side,  his  eyes  narrowed,  as  a  man  that  harkens  for  an 
expected  sound.  Presently  he  was  rewarded;  the  ship 
seemed  to  spring  to  sudden  life.  There  was  a  commotion 
upon  the  decks,  the  sounds  of  excited  voices  crying,  "There! 
there!"  to  one  another;  and  then  the  voice  of  the  lookout: 

"Land  ho!" 

Le  petit  Lemercier  wheeled  about  with  a  strangled  cry  of 
expectation,  and  rushed  from  the  chartroom,  the  captain 
following. 

In  the  saloon,  Chambret  arose,  startled  for  the  moment. 
"Cape  Juby  at  last,  messieurs!"  he  cried. 

Monsieur  le  Prince  turned  upon  him  a  cold,  malicious  eye. 
"Monsieur  is  excitable,"  he  observed,  sneering  offensively. 

Chambret  fought  down  his  resentment  of  the  personality; 
he  had  agreed  with  O'Rourke  not  to  permit  the  prince  to 
quarrel  with  him,  as  yet. 

"Possibly,"  he  admitted  at  last,  placidly.  "  I  go  on  deck 
to  observe  the  fringe  of  the  new  empire,"  he  added. 

Prince  Felix  yawned  and  stretched  himself. 

"  Monsieur  is  at  liberty  to  go  whither  he  lists,"  he  remarked, 
with  the  same  air  of  insolence. 

"  Without  obtaining  permission  from  Monsieur  le  Prince  ?" 
inquired  Chambret  respectfully.  "For  that,  many  thanks." 

He  met  Prince  Felix's  gaze  with  one  so  steadfast  that  the 

[83] 


Terence  O'Rourke,  Gentleman  Adventurer 

r0#£-duelist  drooped  his  lashes;  whereupon  Chambret,  with  a 
short  laugh,  went  on  deck. 

As  he  emerged  from  the  companion  way  he  met  O'Rourke, 
walking  forward. 

The  Irishman  was  dressed  for  his  coming  part;  there  would 
be  an  immediate  landing,  as  all  guessed  from  a  knowledge  of 
the  impatient  nature  of  le  petit  Lemercier,  and  O'Rourke 
would  be  expected  to  head  the  army  of  occupation.  He  was, 
therefore,  attired  in  khaki,  with  a  pith  helmet  and  puttees 
of  the  same  dust-colored  material;  on  his  shoulders  were  the 
straps  bearing  the  insignia  of  his  rank,  and  by  his  side  a  light 
sword;  a  leathern  holster  hung  at  his  belt,  holding  a  revolver 
of  respectable  size. 

Thus  attired  he  looked  uncommonly  comfortable  and  even 
at  peace  with  the  heat;  the  light  green  lining  of  his  helmet 
threw  over  his  brow  a  pale,  cool  tint  that  added  to  the  general 
effect,  and  aroused  Chambret's  humorously  expressed  jeal- 
ousy. 

"  If  monsieur  will  consent  to  become  an  officer  of  the  army," 
retorted  the  Irishman,  "he  may  wear  one  of  these  beautiful 
uniforms." 

"It  is  gay  and  tempting,"  admitted  Chambret.  "Does 
your  offer  include  the  accouterments  ?  "  he  added,  glancing  at 
the  revolver. 

"All,"  returned  the  Irishman  imperturbably. 

"  I've  a  great  mind  to  accept,"  said  Chambret.  "  I  desire  to 
wear  one  of  those  pretty  popguns  that  you  affect,  monsieur." 

"It  would  adom  ye." 

"And  add  immeasurably  to  my  peace  of  mind." 

O'Rourke  raised  his  brows  in  inquiry.  "Monsieur  le 
Prince?"  he  asked,  in  a  low  tone,  nodding  significantly 
toward  the  companionway. 

[84 1 


He  Takes  Command 

"More  offensive  than  ever,"  said  Chambret.  "How  you 
manage  to  endure  his  insinuative  insults  is  more  that  I  can 
comprehend  in  you,  monsieur,  whom  I  know  for  a  man  of 
spirit." 

"Thank  you;  'tis  meself  that's  all  of  that,"  agreed  O'Rourke 
readily.  "But  for  the  present  I'm  cold-bloodedly  biding  me 
time.  'Tis  sure  to  come." 

"And—" 

"And  from  the  moment  Monsieur  le  Prince  attempts  any 
funny  business  ashore,  Chambret,  he  will  begin  to  lose  pres- 
tige. In  fact,"  he  drawled,  "I  think  I  may  state  that  he  will 
be  the  most  astonished  princeling  that  ever  journeyed  to 
Africa." 

"I  do  not  comprehend  — " 

"Wait  —  wait,  mon  ami." 

Laughing  confidently,  O'Rourke  went  forward,  accom- 
panied by  Chambret. 

Lemercier  was  hanging  over  the  bows,  the  captain  by  his 
side;  O'Rourke  drew  Chambret's  attention  to  him. 

"  Drunk  with  imperial  glory,"  he  commented; "  a  sad  sight !" 

He  entered  the  wheel  house  familiarly,  and  returned  at 
once  with  a  pair  of  binoculars.  Chambret  had  already 
climbed  to  the  bridge;  O'Rourke  joined  him,  adjusted  the 
glasses,  and  began  to  sweep  the  nearing  coast  line  with  a 
painstaking  attention. 

Time  and  again  he  scanned  its  visible  configuration  with 
the  glasses;  at  length,  sighing  as  though  with  relief,  he  turned 
them  over  to  Chambret.  The  latter,  who  had  marked 
O'Rourke's  intent  scrutiny  with  wonder,  focussed  the  binocu- 
lars to  his  own  eyes  eagerly,  and  imitated  his  companion's 
use  of  them.  When  he  put  them  down,  "  There  is  nothing  ?  " 
he  said  inquiringly. 

[85] 


Terence  O'Rourke,  Gentleman  Adventurer 

"Nothing,"  affirmed  O'Rourke,  "save  sand  and  heat  and 
silence,  so  far  as  one  can  tell.  Praises  be  to  the  saints  if  it 
is  so  in  truth!"  he  added  piously. 

"What  do  you  mean,  monsieur?  What  did  you  fear  to 
encounter  in  this  uninhabitable  desert?" 

"Tawareks,"  answered  O'Rourke  briefly. 

"Tawareks?  What  be  they,  monsieur  —  bird  or  beast, 
or  —  ?" 

"Devils,"  the  Irishman  indicated  sententiously;  "devils 
in  human  guise,  me  dear  Chambret." 

The  Frenchman  frowned,  perplexed. 

"I  do  not  comprehend." 

"Ye've  never  heard  of  the  Tawareks,  monsieur?  'The 
masked  pirates  of  the  desert,'  as  your  press  terms  them?  The 
natives  that  made  ye  more  trouble  in  the  Soudan  —  around 
about  Timbuctu  —  than  any  others?" 

Chambret  shook  his  head  doubtfully.  "I  remember  hear- 
ing of  the  fighting  thereabouts,"  he  admitted;  "but,  believe 
me,  monsieur,  to  me  the  name  of  one  tribe  of  blacks  means 
no  more  than  that  of  another." 

"Tawareks,"  O'Rourke  objected,  "are  no  niggers.  They 
are  the  lords  of  the  desert  —  inhabitants  of  the  Sahara  proper 
—  a  branch  of  the  Berbers:  perhaps  the  root-stock  of  the 
Berber  family  tree — for  they're  almost  white.  They  infest  the 
caravan  routes;  in  a  word,  they 're  pirates,  and  rule  the  country 
with  a  rod  of  iron.  Not  a  caravan  gets  safely  through  their 
territory  without  paying  tribute  in  the  shape  of  toll  money 
to  the  Tawareks.  They  are  —  diwles  incarnate,  no  less!" 

"  And  you  fear  them  here,  monsieur  ?  " 

"Much.  Why  else  should  I  have  insisted  on  a  force  of 
forty  fighting  men,  rather  than  the  original  ten  which  Mon- 
sieur le  Prince  suggested?" 

[86] 


He  Takes  Command 

Chambret  pursed  his  lips  and  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"I  will  join  your  army,  monsieur,"  he  volunteered  pres- 
ently, "and  wear  one  of  your  pretty  uniforms  —  and  the 
revolver." 

"Ye  will  be  welcome,"  said  O'Rourke  simply,  again  as- 
suming the  glasses.  After  a  second  reassuring  inspection  he 
nevertheless  called  Danny  and  issued  to  him  orders  concern- 
ing the  arms  and  ammunition  of  the  troopers. 

The  Eirene  plowed  on  toward  the  coast;  gradually  it 
loomed  before  her  bows  until  its  outlines  were  easily  to  be 
discerned  with  the  unaided  eye  —  a  long,  low  border  of  shelv- 
ing beach  that  was  tossed  back  from  the  sea  in  yellow  sand 
hills,  irregular,  studded  with  clumps  of  stunted  grass:  hills 
that  stretched  away  inland  to  the  eastern  horizon  in  a  broken 
perspective  of  rounded  forms,  sweltering  beneath  the  sky  of 
brass  and  its  unblinking  sun,  lonely,  desolate  and  barren  —  a 
monstrous  bald  place  upon  the  poll  of  the  earth.  Not  a  sign 
of  life  was  there;  naught  but  sand  and  silence  and  the  sun. 
Its  effect  of  solitude  seemed  overpowering.  Not  even  a  bird 
of  prey  hung  poised  in  the  saffron  sky;  for  here  was  nought 
to  prey  upon. 

Those  of  the  ship's  company  who  were  to  land  —  that  is, 
all  save  the  complement  of  the  yacht  —  watched  the  scene 
unceasingly,  and  with  increasing  perturbation.  Surely,  they 
said  one  to  another,  it  was  inconceivable  that  man  could  win 
him  a  foothold  in  this  place  of  barrenness.  They  turned 
their  eyes  to  le  petit  Lemercier,  some  of  the  more  outspoken 
grumbling,  fomenting  mutiny  among  their  fellows.  Was  he 
to  take  them  there,  to  pen  them  in  the  solitude  of  that  land 
without  shade  or  water?  Did  he  dream  of  this ? 

Even  Lemercier  himself  was  disturbed;  the  rosy  visions  that 
had  been  his,  faded.  For  an  instant  he  was  perilously  near 

[87] 


Terence  O'Rourke,  Gentleman  Adventurer 

to  disillusionment,  near  to  turning  back  and  abandoning  his 
project. 

This  land  loomed  so  different  from  what  he  had  been  led  to 
expect,  from  the  empire  in  embryo  his  wishful  imagination 
had  pictured  to  him.  Had  he  been  deceived  —  or  had  he 
been  merely  self-deceived?  Should  he  persist?  Would  his 
plans  bear  fruit? 

Thus  he  vacillated;  and  would  probably  have  acknowledged 
defeat  ere  giving  battle  with  this  wilderness  but  for  Monsieur 
le  Prince  de  Grandlieu. 

Instinctively,  the  latter  had  dreaded  the  effect  of  Lemer- 
cier's  first  sight  of  the  land  he  had  come  to  conquer.  Now 
he  was  ever  at  his  dupe's  elbow,  an  evil  genius  whispering 
encouragement  in  his  ear. 

"Irrigation!  Ah,  but  wait,  mon  ami,  and  observe  what 
irrigation  shall  accomplish  here !  The  oasis  ?  We  have  been 
misled;  our  information  was  erroneous.  Beyond  doubt  it 
exists,  either  here  or  hereabouts.  The  makers  of  maps  are 
prone  to  mistakes.  Let  us  go  on,  down  the  coast — "  and 
so  forth. 

Lemercier's  mood  changed  under  the  stimulus  of  his  men- 
tor's encouraging  words.  His  brow  cleared;  he  straightened 
his  slight  form,  throwing  back  his  shoulders  proudly,  frown- 
ing at  the  desert. 

He  had  come  to  fight  it.  So  —  he  would  fight  it !  And 
he  would  conquer  it,  —  conquer  or  die  in  the  attempt. 

By  his  order,  for  hours  the  Eirene  shaped  her  course  south- 
wards, down  the  coast.  By  degrees  almost  imperceptible, 
the  latter  changed  in  aspect ;  the  dunes  became  higher,  more 
solid  appearing  to  the  eye,  the  lay  of  the  country  more  rough 
and  rugged. 

At  about  four  o'clock  in  the  afternoon  the  yacht  rounded  a 


He  Takes  Command 

point,  to  come  suddenly  upon  what  seemed  to  be,  at  first 
glance,  a  broad  bay  and  a  natural  harbor. 

The  captain  of  the  vessel  was  the  first  to  discover  its  true 
nature;  after  a  hasty  inspection  of  the  chart,  he  announced: 

"The  mouth  of  the  Wadi  Saglat." 

"A  river!"  cried  Lemercier  triumphantly. 

"A  dead  river,"  amended  the  captain;  "its  mouth  forms 
an  estuary  of  a  kind.  There  should  be  anchorage  here." 

"But  the  oasis?" 

At  this  moment  Prince  Felix  entered  the  chartroom. 

"The  lookout,"  he  said,  "reports  a  large  clump  of  trees  a 
considerable  distance  inland." 

Lemercier  danced  with  excitement,  shrilling  out  orders; 
Monsieur  le  Prince  watched  him  with  an  amusement  tem- 
pered with  disdain  —  which,  however,  he  took  care  to  hide. 

When  the  ship  was  brought  to  a  stop  within  the  mouth  of 
the  Wadi,  the  anchor  was  dropped  and  the  surmise  of  the 
captain  proved  correct ;  a  good  holding  was  there. 

Boats  were  lowered,  and  the  troops  piled  into  them, 
Monsieur  le  petit  Lemercier  in  the  foremost,  standing  at  the 
prow  with  the  pose  of  the  heroic  leader  of  an  invading  army, 
a  pith  helmet  in  his  hand,  his  hair,  the  color  of  tow,  tossed 
back  in  strings  from  his  narrow  forehead,  his  head  high,  eyes 
fixed,  lips  mechanically  smiling  —  an  object,  in  short,  of  deri- 
sion to  the  more  light-minded  members  of  his  expedition,  of 
pity  to  all. 

O'Rourke  followed,  in  the  second  boat,  with  a  portion  of 
his  command.  He  was  the  second  to  step  ashore,  and  at  that 
opportunely  to  catch  the  arm  of  the  impetuous  Lemercier 
and  save  him  a  fall  in  the  sands. 

For  this  Frenchman  who  would  be  emperor,  in  his  over- 
whelming desire  to  set  foot  upon  the  lands  he  designed  for 

[89] 


Terence  O'Rourke,  Gentleman  Adventurer 

empire,   was  over-hasty  in  jumping  ashore.    He  slipped, 
stumbled,  plunged  forward  with  wildly  grasping  hands. 

"An  omen!"  he  whimpered,  turning  toward  O'Rourke, 
when  by  his  aid  he  had  regained  balance.  His  coun- 
tenance had  lost  its  proud  smile;  he  seemed  a  very  child 
to  O'Rourke  —  a  child  frightened  by  the  darkness  or  by  an 
old  woman's  tale.  His  lip  trembled,  his  eyes  were  filled  with 
dread  as  with  tears;  he  quivered  with  a  sort  of  terror. 

"An  omen!"  he  repeated  piteously.  "An  inauspicious 
omen!" 

"Nonsense!"  derided  O'Rourke,  moved  by  sudden  com- 
passion for  the  child.  "Monsieur  stumbled,  it  is  true:  the 
way  to  empire  is  not  smooth.  But  he  did  not  fall;  he  stands 
firmly  on  his  feet.  ...  I  would  ask  monsieur  not  to  forget  by 
whose  hand,"  he  added,  with  meaning,  yet  laughing. 

Lemercier  brightened. 

"I  shall  not  forget,  mon  ami"  he  promised. 

"The  memory  of  monarchs  is  short,"  O'Rourke  reminded 
himself,  lest  the  promise  should  make  him  over-sanguine  of 
the  future. 

Other  boats  followed,  discharging  their  occupants,  and 
returned  to  the  Eirene  for  more;  within  a  short  time  the 
toiling  sailors  at  the  oars  had  landed  the  expedition  in  its 
entirety. 

So  far  there  had  been  no  demonstration. 

Now  Lemercier  stood  surrounded  by  his  associates  and 
friends  —  by  no  means  to  be  confused.  On  the  one  hand, 
were  Madame  la  Princesse  —  charming,  beautiful,  and  dis- 
tinguished, and  utterly  out  of  place  in  her  Parisian  summer 
gown  —  with  O'Rourke  and  Chambret;  on  the  other,  Prince 
Felix,  D'Ervy,  Mouchon;  and  behind  them  aU,  in  double 
rank,  the  forty  troops  commanded  by  Danny  —  all  now  neat 

[90] 


He  Takes  Command 

and  soldierly  of  appearance  in  khaki  uniforms,  all  armed  with 
Mausers,  bayonets,  revolvers. 

Mouchon,  bearing  the  jacketed  standard  of  the  new  em- 
pire, offered  it  to  Lemercier,  judging  that  the  time  was  ripe. 
Le  petit  Lemercier,  however,  was  of  a  different  mind. 

"Not  here,"  he  decided:  "not  upon  the  seashore;  I  am  not 
inclined  to  imitate  King  Canute.  Let  us  go  inland  —  to  the 
oasis." 

And  the  procession  moved  off,  plodding  desperately  in  the 
hollows  of  the  dunes,  guided  by  men  who  climbed  the  hills  to 
report  the  way. 

But  it  seemed  that  it  was  farther  than  their  leader  had 
calculated;  he  himself  grew  weary  of  the  tiresome  journey, 
and  when  O'Rourke  moved  up  to  his  side,  and  suggested 
that  it  would  be  impossible  to  reach  the  oasis  before  dark,  he 
halted  immediately. 

"Mouchon!"  he  called.  "Give  me  the  flag.  At  least  it 
shall  be  unfurled  in  the  sun's  rays." 

They  stood  in  the  center  of  a  natural  depression,  something 
like  a  square  half  mile  in  area,  almost  level,  bounded  by  silent 
Mid  forbidding  hills  of  sand. 

Again  the  little  company  arranged  itself  in  anticipation  of 
the  ceremony.  Lemercier  took  the  standard  and  unwrapped 
its  waterproof  covering.  He  stepped  to  the  fore  of  the  as- 
semblage, raising  his  shrill,  nasal  voice. 

"In  the  name  of  the  progress  of  God's  civilization,"  he 
announced,  "I,  Leopold,  do  declare  this  country  mine  by 
the  right  of  discovery;  and  I  name  it  the  Empire  of  the 
Sahara!" 

There  was  a  moment's  silence ;  Leopold  had  been  schooled 
to  his  part.  He  sank  upon  one  knee  and  bowed  his  head, 
appearing  to  invite  the  blessing  of  the  Deity  upon  his  empire. 


Terence  O'Rourke,  Gentleman  Adventurer 

Then,  abruptly,  as  though  moved  by  springs,  he  leapt  to  his 
feet  and  unfurled  the  standard. 

It  fluttered,  in  the  breeze  created  by  his  own  rapid  motions, 
from  side  to  side  —  a  purple  flag,  fringed  with  gold,  with  three 
golden  bees  embroidered  upon  it  in  a  triangular  arrangement, 
in  the  center  of  which  was  the  Emperor's  initial  —  "L." 
The  last  crimson  rays  of  the  dying  sun  lit  it  up  brightly. 

From  the  group  about  the  emperor  a  feeble  cheer  arose; 
then  Danny  rose  to  the  occasion. 

"Cheer,  ye  tamers!"  he  growled  in  an  undertone,  raising 
his  sword  aloft  and  waving  it.  "Yelp,  ye  scuts,  as  though  ye 
believed  in  him  yerselves!  Prisint  ar-rms!"  he  roared. 
"Now,  byes,  wan,  two,  three  — " 

The  soldiery,  grinning,  filled  the  little  valley  with  their 
shouts. 

"ViveFEmpereur!" 

"Again!" 

"ViveFEmpereurl" 

"Wance  again,  la-ads!    Now — " 

For  a  third  time  they  gave  le  petit  Lemercier  a  crashing 
cheer;  it  thundered  from  their  throats  and  —  was  lost.  That 
silence  which  lay  upon  the  hills,  lifeless,  dull,  empty  even  of 
echoes,  fell  upon  and  crushed  the  uproar  to  nothingness. 

But>  for  all  that,  the  noise,  the  spirit  of  the  words  cried  in 
his  name,  was  meat  and  drink  to  le  petit  Lemercier,  and  a  joy 
to  the  soul  of  him.  He  raised  his  head,  regally,  smiling, 
and  began  a  speech. 

"Messieurs!"  he  cried  pompously.  "I — "  His  voice 
died  to  a  whisper  in  his  throat;  his  flush  paled;  he  collapsed 
suddenly  from  the  statue  of  an  emperor  to  that  of  a  frightened 
child.  "General  O'Rourke— "  he  faltered,  with  a  fright- 
ened gesture. 

[92] 


He  Takes  Command 

The  eyes  of  the  company  followed  the  direction  of  his  gaze. 

Abruptly,  noiselessly,  the  summits  of  the  surrounding  hills 
had  become  peopled;  out  of  the  wilderness  its  men  had 
sprung  to  look  upon  this  man  who  dared  declare  himself 
their  ruler. 

O'Rourke  cast  his  eyes  about  the  whole  circumference  of 
the  little  valley;  on  every  hilltop  he  saw  men,  seated  silently 
upon  the  back  of  camels,  watching,  it  seemed,  sardonically 
the  trumpery  show  beneath  them :  men  of  giant  figures  and  of 
lordly  bearing,  clothed  for  the  most  part  in  flowing  white 
burnooses,  with  headdresses  of  white.  Each  bore  upon  his 
hip,  as  a  cavalryman  carries  his  carbine,  a  long  rifle;  and  each 
was  masked  with  black  below  his  eyes. 

For  a  full  minute  the  tableau  held:  the  forlorn  little  com- 
pany in  the  valley,  motionless  with  astonishment,  transfixed 
with  a  chill  of  fear;  the  spectators  upon  the  dunes,  gazing 
grimly  down  —  quiet  and  sinister,  bulking  against  the  dark- 
ling sky  like  some  portentous  army  of  ghosts. 

O'Rourke  was  the  first  to  recover;  he  realized  that  the  time 
was  brief  for  that  which  must  be  accomplished.  Already  the 
sun  was  down;  there  would  be  a  few  fleeting  moments  of  twi- 
light, then  the  sudden,  swooping  desert  night. 

"Tawareks!"  he  shouted.  "The  masked  Tawareks! 
Men,  form  a  square !  Danny,  run  back  and  see  if  the  way  to- 
the  boats  be  clear;  if  not,  we'll  have  to  fight  through  them!" 
He  turned  to  his  princess.  "Madame,"  he  said  gently, 
"there  will  be  but  one  place  for  ye  —  the  center  of  the  square. 
We  fight  for  our  lives  now,  and  against  odds ! " 

And  he  drew  his  breath  sharply,  mindful  of  the  two  long 
miles  that  lay  between  them  and  the  boats. 


CHAPTER  XI 

HE  SAVES  THAT  WHICH  HE  LOVES  THE  BEST 

IN  an  instant  the  little  valley  was  the  scene  of  confusion; 
for  a  frantic  moment  men  were  running  hither  and  thither, 
apparently  aimlessly,  weaving  in  and  out  amongst  their  com- 
rades —  shouting,  screaming,  cursing  aloud. 

Danny,  obedient  to  the  order  of  O'Rourke,  shouted  to  his 
men,  commanding  them  to  form  a  square  similar  to  that  used 
by  British  infantry  when  repelling  attacks. 

In  the  center  of  the  square  would  be  placed  all  those  who 
might  be  counted  upon  to  act  as  non-combatants  in  event  of 
a  possible  melee  between  the  landing  party  and  the  rightful 
lords  of  the  desert  —  the  Tawareks.  These  would  be,  prob- 
ably, Madame  la  Princesse  de  Grandlieu,  her  husband,  Prince 
Felix,  together  with  Mouchon  and  D'Ervy  and  Monsieur 
Lemercier  himself  —  Leopold  the  First,  Emperor  of  the 
Sahara. 

O'Rourke  seized  the  arm  of  the  princess,  near  to  whom  he 
had  been  standing,  in  a  grasp  whose  roughness  might  only 
be  condoned  in  view  of  his  anxiety  to  get  her  quickly  to  the 
place  of  most  safety.  She  did  not  resist;  she  did  not  even 
seem  to  resent  his  action.  In  her  eyes,  upturned  to  his, 
O'Rourke  caught  a  look  —  even  in  that  moment  of  terror 
and  confusion  —  which  he  never  forgot,  which  he  was  to 
treasure  jealously  for  the  rest  of  his  days  —  a  look  of  con- 
fidence, commingled  (he  dared  hope)  with  an  emotion  deeper, 
rtronger.  In  the  deepening  twilight  they  shone  like  clear, 

[94] 


He  Saves  that  which  he  Loves  the  Best 

dark  pools  of  night,  lit  with  a  light  from  within.  Small 
wonder  that  the  headstrong  Irishman  was  conscious  of  his 
leaping  heart,  or  that  he  lost  himself  momentarily  in  their 
depths. 

But  the  voice  of  Chambret  brought  them  both  to  reason  — 
Chambret,  who  had  been  no  less  instant  to  the  side  of  the 
princess.  He  shouted  something  in  a  tone  tinged  with  im- 
patient worriment.  O'Rourke  heard  and  turned,  shaking 
his  head  like  a  man  restive  under  the  influence  of  a  dream. 

"Chambret!"  he  cried.  "Thank  God!  Ye're  armed? 
Then  take  her,  man,  and  —  and  guard  her  as  ye  would  your 
life.  Madame,"  he  murmured,  "ye  will  pardon  me  —  me 
seeming  roughness.  I  —  I  was  — " 

"I  understand,  monsieur,"  she  said  quietly,  still  with  her 
gaze  upon  his  eyes;  "you  are  needed  elsewhere.  Monsieur 
Chambret,  your  arm,  if  you  please.  I  shall  not  run  away, 
that  you  need  clutch  me  so  rudely!" 

O'Rourke  was  gone.  Chambret  stared  at  the  face  of  the 
woman  in  deepest  chagrin.  Did  not  the  excuse  the  Irishman 
had  claimed  apply  to  him,  to  Chambret,  also  ?  He  had  how- 
ever, no  time  for  protest.  Immediately  they  found  them- 
selves surrounded  by  a  pushing  mob  of  men,  which  presently 
resolved  itself  into  an  orderly  square,  ten  men  to  a  side,  en- 
closing the  civilians  and  the  pseudo-emperor. 

O'Rourke  took  command,  unsheathing  his  sword  and 
drawing  his  revolver. 

"Fix  bayonets!"  he  cried. 

There  was  a  heavy  thudding  as  the  Mausers  grounded 
upon  the  sand,  and  there  followed  the  rattle  of  steel.  In  an- 
other moment  the  square  bristled  like  a  hedgehog,  with  the 
long,  curved  blades  outturned  upon  the  end  of  each  firearm. 

So  far  O'Rourke's  attention  had  been  directed  solely  to 

[951 


Terence  O'Rourke,  Gentleman  Adventurer 

getting  the  command  in  a  state  of  defense  against  the  ex- 
pected attack;  now  he  turned  his  eyes  to  the  enemy.  Among 
them  there  was  noticeable  no  confusion,  no  trace  of  excite- 
ment; still  they  sat  motionless  atop  their  camels,  gazing  stead- 
fastly down  into  the  gathering  shadows  of  the  valley,  where 
the  intruders  were  running  frantically  to  and  fro,  making 
much  unseemly  noise. 

Still  the  lords  of  the  desert  sat  stolid  and  imperturbable, 
ranged  about  the  summits  of  the  surrounding  dunes,  un- 
awed  by  the  hostile  preparations,  awe-inspiring  in  their  im- 
passivity, their  light-hued  burnooses  looming  against  the  cool 
violet  sky  line,  themselves  as  imperturbable  as  so  many  car- 
rion birds  waiting  for  their  prey  to  die  ere  descending  upon 
the  tempting  carcasses. 

In  the  valley  the  little  company  was  watching  them  breath- 
lessly. O'Rourke  grasped  at  a  flying  hope  that  their  intent 
might  be,  after  all,  pacific;  it  brought  a  sigh  of  anticipated 
relief  to  his  throat. 

Hurriedly  he  unswung  his  field  glasses  and  turned  them 
toward  the  rear  —  in  the  direction  from  which  the  landing 
party  had  come.  They  covered  the  figure  of  Danny,  who 
was  still  bravely  running  back  to  see  if  the  way  to  the  boats 
were  clear. 

Already  the  man  had  covered  more  than  a  quarter  of  a 
mile  from  the  square  and  was  pushing  on,  regardless  of  the 
danger  he  neared  at  every  step;  for,  although  it  seemed  that 
the  bulk  of  the  Tawareks  had  massed  themselves  to  the  north 
and  east  of  the  square,  with  a  few  to  the  south,  yet  two  were 
waiting  upon  their  camels  at  no  great  distance  from  the  de- 
pression between  two  western  sandhills  by  which  the  party 
had  entered  this  valley. 

For  a  moment  or  two,  O'Rourke  watched  Danny  flounder 

[96] 


He  Saves  that  which  he  Loves  the  Best 

and  struggle  forward  through  the  cumbering,  loose  sand  that 
clogged  his  feet. 

"I  was  rattled  —  a  fool  to  send  him!"  muttered  the  Irish- 
man remorsefully.  " '  Wish  I  might  call  him  back  before  'tis 
too  late !  He  can  tell  little  in  this  darkness,  and  he's  running 
into  almost  certain  —  Ah!" 

A  rifle's  crack  rang  sharp  in  the  hush;  the  Tawarek  nearest 
Danny  had  fired.  His  long  weapon  spat  a  yard  of  flame  that 
showed  crimson  and  gold  against  the  dusk.  Danny  plunged 
forward,  falling  upon  his  knees. 

From  the  square  rose  a  cry  of  horror  that  changed  abruptly 
to  a  yelp  of  rage  from  the  stricken  man's  comrades.  They 
fingered  the  triggers  of  their  Mausers  nervously,  looking  to 
O'Rourke  for  an  order  to  fire. 

He  shook  his  head,  then  again  put  the  glasses  to  his  eyes. 

"Not  yet,"  he  cried.  "There's  a  chance  that  we  may  get 
through  without  bloodshed  if  we  hold  our  fire!" 

"  Without  bloodshed ! "  echoed  Chambret.  "  When  they've 
murdered  him  — " 

"He's  not  murdered!"  declared  O'Rourke.  "I  don't  be- 
lieve he's  hit,  even.  See,  he's  up  again !" 

This  was  true.  It  seemed  possible  that  Danny  had  stum- 
bled and  fallen,  rather  than  that  he  had  been  shot.  He  was 
even  then  rising,  slowly  and  with  evident  effort;  and  he 
turned,  looking  back  irresolutely,  as  though  undecided 
whether  or  not  to  push  on. 

O'Rourke  raised  his  voice,  shouting  with  all  the  strength 
of  his  lungs. 

" Come  back,  Danny!"  he  roared.     " Back!" 

Reluctant  to  retreat  in  the  face  of  his  foes,  possibly,  the 
man  continued  to  hesitate.  O'Rourke,  in  an  undertone, 
cursed  him  for  his  stupidity.  He  observed  that  Danny  had 

[97] 


Terence  O'Rourke,  Gentleman  Adventurer 

drawn  a  revolver  and  was  looking  from  one  to  another  of  the 
Tawareks.  "The  infernal  daredivvle !"  murmured  O'Rourke, 
conscious  of  a  slight  constriction  in  his  throat.  For  he  loved 
the  boy  as  only  an  Irishman  can  love  a  loyal  servant. 

But  he  was  right;  Danny's  action,  which  he  had  been 
prompted  to  take  by  the  instinct  of  self-preservation  alone, 
was  folly,  being  open  to  misinterpretation  by  the  Tawareks. 
One  —  he  who  had  fired  —  called  aloud  to  his  companion : 
an  odd,  thin,  wailing  cry,  the  first  that  had  come  from  the 
impassive  natives.  It  shrilled  uncannily  in  the  ears  of  the 
foreigners. 

And  it  produced  an  immediate  effect,  sealing  the  fate  of 
Danny.  The  second  Tawarek  swung  his  rifle  to  his  shoul- 
der, and  fired. 

Danny  staggered  and  cursed  the  fellow  —  the  syllables 
indistinguishable  because  of  the  distance.  He  seemed  to  try 
to  raise  his  weapon  and  return  the  fire,  but  his  arm  would  not 
move  from  his  side.  He  took  a  step  or  two  forward,  falter- 
ing, and  then,  amid  a  breathless  silence,  reeled  and  fell  prone. 

O'Rourke  was  swept  off  his  feet  in  a  gust  of  rage. 

"Fire!"  he  thundered.     "Fire!" 

A  lean  ex-Spahi  was  the  first  to  respond  —  a  sharpshooter 
he  had  been  in  the  French  Army.  Hardly  had  the  command 
passed  O'Rourke's  lips  than,  with  his  Mauser  still  at  his  hip, 
this  fellow  fired. 

The  rifle  snapped  venomously,  like  the  crack  of  a  black- 
snake  whip.  The  Tawarek  who  had  been  the  last  to  fire 
lurched  in  the  saddle,  dropping  his  rifle,  and  slid  listlessly  for- 
ward upon  the  neck  of  his  camel. 

Then  night  came  as  a  dark  mantle  cast  upon  the  face  of  the 
earth  —  night,  deep  and  softly  black,  the  invading  party's 
worst  enemy,  since  it  left  them  lost  in  the  midst  of  deso- 

[98] 


He  Saves  that  which  he  Loves  the  Best 

late  sandhills,  without  guide  or  notion  as  to  their  where- 
abouts. 

Bright  stars  leaped  suddenly  from  the  vault  of  heaven,  cast- 
ing a  pale  bluish  illumination  upon  the  desert;  a  cold  wind 
sprang  from  nowhere  and  chilled  the  foreigners  to  the  bone. 

One  volley  was  fired,  almost  unanimously,  upon  the  heels 
of  the  Spahi's  wonderful  shot.  Had  it  been  as  effective  as  it 
seemed  to  be,  things  would  have  been  well  indeed  with  the 
little  party;  for  when  the  vapor  had  cleared  the  dunes  were 
bare  and  lifeless  again  —  the  Tawareks  had  disappeared. 

"  Forward ! "  shouted  O'Rourke.     "  To  the  boats ! " 

Upon  the  word,  the  command  began  to  move  toward  the 
seashore  and  the  Eirene  —  or  as  nearly  in  that  direction  as  it 
might  guess.  The  square  formation  was  preserved,  as  was 
the  silence,  the  men  alertly  awaiting  the  expected  attack  and 
with  keen  eyes  searching  the  dunes  for  sign  or  sound  of  the 
enemy. 

None  appeared,  save  now  and  then  the  red  tongue  of  flame 
from  the  top  of  a  sandhill  and  the  dull  report  of  a  rifle;  for  the 
most  part  the  shots  were  poorly  aimed,  flying  high  above  the 
heads  of  the  foreigners.  Nevertheless,  they  were  irritating, 
galling  to  the  ready  fighters  who  asked  nothing  better  than  a 
chance  to  stand  up  and  shoot  and  be  shot  at  by  an  enemy  who 
dared  fight  in  the  open. 

"Aim  at  the  flashes!"  O'Rourke  told  them,  and  this  ad- 
vice they  followed,  but  with  what  result  they  knew  not. 

For  the  Tawareks  did  not  cry  aloud  their  hurts,  sustained 
they  any;  they  fought  with  deadly  purpose  and  in  utter  silence, 
these  men  born  to  and  bred  in  the  eternal  silence  of  the  desert. 
And  continually  they  maintained  a  fire  that  seemed  to  come 
from  every  point  of  the  compass,  and  minute  by  minute  grew 
more  acute  and  galling. 

[99] 


Terence  O'Rourke  >  Gentleman  Adventurer 

Those  primal  shots  which  had  whistled  harmlessly  over  the 
invaders'  heads  were  followed  by  others  less  inaccurate,  as 
the  Tawareks  improved  their  range  of  their  enemies.  Bullets 
began  to  plow  up  the  sand  at  the  toes  of  the  retreating  sol- 
diers; and  one  was  hit  hard  and  dropped  his  rifle  to  stanch 
the  flow  of  blood  from  his  chest. 

Another  screamed  shrilly  and  reeled  about,  to  fall  with  his 
face  to  the  sea  —  stone  dead :  a  Turco  that.  A  third  groaned 
at  the  loss  of  a  finger  nipped  off  by  a  flying  bullet. 

By  now  they  were  come  up  with  the  prostrate  figure  of 
Danny.  O'Rourke  dropped  the  command  for  a  moment  to 
lean  over  this  countryman  of  his  and  to  feel  of  his  heart;  it 
was  still  beating,  and  the  man  moaned  and  stirred  beneath 
O'Rourke's  touch.  He  called  two  of  the  soldiers  and  bade 
them  carry  their  wounded  captain  to  the  rear  as  gently  and  as 
expeditiously  as  they  might;  then  turned  his  mind  to  the  prob- 
lem at  hand. 

Rapidly  the  situation  was  becoming  desperate;  two  more 
men  were  out  of  the  fighting  —  one  with  a  bullet  through  his 
brain,  another  with  a  shattered  forearm.  Massed  as  they 
were,  they  formed  a  conspicuous  mark,  a  dark  blur  upon  the 
starlit  sands,  a  bold  target  for  the  Tawareks;  while  the  latter 
kept  themselves  carefully  in  concealment. 

With  each  second  a  spurt  of  fire  would  belch  from  a  black 
clump  of  sand  grass  on  a  hilltop;  and  never  twice  from  the 
same  tuft.  The  foreigners  fired  valiantly  at  the  flashes;  but  it 
is  doubtful  if  their  bullets  did  more  than  to  disturb  the  sands. 

O'Rourke  thought  quickly,  as  quickly  came  to  his  deci- 
sion. It  appeared  that  their  present  mode  of  retreat  was 
untenable,  their  pace  slow,  their  eventual  escape  to  the  boats 
problematical.  Meanwhile,  Madame  la  Princesse  was  in  the 
gravest  danger;  the  men  who  shielded  her  vrere  falling  right 

[100] 


He  Saves  that  which  lie  Loves  the  Best 

and  left;  it  was  but  a  question  of  minutes  ere  she  would  no 
longer  have  protection  even  from  their  bodies. 

"Chambret!"  O'Rourke  shouted;  and  the  answer  of  the 
Frenchman  came  clear  above  the  din  of  the  firing: 

"Here  and  safe,  monsieur!" 

O'Rourke  made  his  way  to  the  Frenchman's  side. 

"Take  madame  and  ten  men  —  the  nearest  ten  —  and 
make  for  the  boats.  If  ye  reach  the  yacht,  send  up  rockets  to 
guide  us  to  the  coast.  We'll  stay  and  hold  these  devils  off  to 
cover  your  retreat." 

He  turned  to  find  le  petit  Lemercier  at  his  elbow  —  a  pale, 
fear-stricken  thing,  shaken  with  tremblings. 

"Monsieur,"  advised  O'Rourke,  "it  is  your  duty  to  us  all 
to  go  with  madame  and  Monsieur  Chambret." 

"Non,  monsieur!"  he  cried  shrilly.  "I  stay  and  fight  — 
here  with  my  men !  There  is  a  weapon  for  me  ?  I  fight!" 

"Bully  for  ye!"  O'Rourke  found  time  to  mutter  as  he 
moved  away.  "Ye've  more  sand  in  ye  than  I  thought,  me 
lad!"  The  next  moment  he  had  mounted  a  convenient  dune 
and  was  directing  the  retreat.  "Scatter!"  he  told  the  men 
at  the  top  of  his  voice.  "  Scatter  —  ten  yards  betwreen  each 
man.  Lie  down  and  fire  from  the  hilltops,  behind  the  clumps 
of  grass.  In  open  order  —  deploy ! " 

A  cheerful  yelp  greeted  his  words;  the  men  obeyed,  bur- 
rowing into  the  sands  like  rabbits.  Chambret's  contingent 
had  already  started  for  the  rear,  swelled  in  numbers  to  some 
twenty  strong,  including  the  wounded,  Mouchon,  D'Ervy, 
and  Prince  Felix;  they  made  way  rapidly,  and  were  unmo- 
lested. For  the  tactics  adopted  by  O'Rourke  —  quick- 
witted soldier  that  he  was,  who  had  been  instant  to  learn  his 
lesson  from  the  Tawareks  and  to  copy  their  mode  of  guerrilla 
warfare  —  had  stopped  the  advance  of  the  natives. 

[101] 


Terence  O'Rourke,  Gentleman  Adventurer 

The  foreigners  spread  out,  fanwise,  completely  covering 
the  way  to  the  coast.  They  fired,  and  now  with  more  effect, 
for  the  Tawareks,  recklessly  brave,  were  forced  to  expose 
themselves  more  or  less  in  order  to  determine  the  movements 
of  their  antagonists. 

Between  shots  the  invaders  would  drop  back  a  few  yards, 
then  again  seek  the  convenient  shelter  of  a  dune  and  wait  for 
the  silhouette  of  a  Tawarek  turban  above  the  sky  line  as  a 
mark  for  their  bullets.  The  Mausers  kept  up  a  continual 
chatter,  fast  and  furious  as  the  drum  of  a  machine  gun,  and 
now  and  then  neighbor  would  call  to  neighbor  a  jeering  com- 
ment that  was  a  delight  to  the  soul  of  O'Rourke,  for  it  showed 
him  that  he  had  chosen  his  men  wisely  —  men  who  could 
laugh  in  the  heat  of  battle. 

He  cheered  them  on  himself,  with  the  rifle  of  one  of  the 
fallen  hugged  close  to  his  cheek;  but  now  he  found  he  had  a 
double  duty  to  perform  —  not  alone  to  command  but  also  to 
watch  over  the  new-fledged  emperor,  by  whose  side  the  Irish- 
man hung  tenaciously. 

As  for  le  petit  Lemercier,  he  was  proving  himself  more  of  a 
man  than  any  would  have  credited  him  with  being;  he  laughed 
hysterically  for  the  most  part,  it  is  true;  but  he  kept  his  Mau- 
ser hot  and  the  sands  spraying  up  from  the  Tawarek's  shelter- 
ing dunes.  And  to  him,  also,  the  heart  of  the  Irishman 
warmed,  as  it  always  did  to  a  ready  fighter. 

Thus  they  fought  on  steadily,  as  steadily  falling  back;  to 
O'Rourke  it  seemed  as  though  the  way  were  endless,  and 
more  than  once  he  feared  that  they  were  going  rather  inland 
than  toward  the  coast;  but  in  the  end  the  hiss  and  detonation 
of  a  rocket  behind  him  proved  that  he  had  not  erred  in  trust- 
ing to  instinct. 

He  turned  to  watch  the  sputtering  arc  of  sparks  that  lin- 

[102] 


He  Saves  that  which  he  Loves  the  Best 

gered  in  the  rocket's  trail,  and  saw  it  flare  and  spread  almost 
directly  above  his  head.  He  cheered  aloud,  shouting  to  his 
comrades  the  glad  news  that  they  were  within  appreciable 
yards  of  the  shore. 

In  their  turn,  they  cheered  breathlessly;  and  simultane- 
ously the  fire  of  the  Tawareks  dwindled  to  a  perceptible 
extent.  A  second  rocket  screamed  its  way  to  the  skies 
and  burst  aloft  with  a  deafening  roar  —  a  wrecking  rocket, 
that. 

From  the  Tawareks  came  their  first  human  utterances  — 
a  chorus  of  fearful  shrieks;  they  fired  no  longer.  A  third 
rocket  swept  inland,  exploding  in  their  neighborhood;  they 
shrieked  again,  and  their  fire  died  out  completely. 

The  battle  of  the  sandhills  was  over. 

O'Rourke,  breathing  a  blessing  upon  the  saints  who  had 
preserved  him,  checked  the  now  almost  automatic  firing  of 
the  fledgling  emperor  and  hurried  him  back  to  the  beach; 
they  burst  from  among  the  dunes  and  into  sight  of  the  yacht 
in  company  with  others  of  the  fighters. 

Their  fellows  arrived  momentarily,  to  throw  themselves 
down  on  the  wet  sands  and  pant  out  their  exhaustion. 
O'Rourke  counted  them  as  they  came  on  and  estimated  a 
full  roster  —  that  is  to  say,  none  had  fallen  since  his  adoption 
of  Tawarek  strategy. 

Between  the  yacht  and  the  shore,  boats  were  plying.  The 
captain  of  the  vessel  had  waked  to  his  duty,  and  now  rapid- 
fire  guns  coughed,  and  Catlings  jabbered,  sending  a  storm  of 
missiles  over  the  heads  of  those  on  the  beach,  to  fall  far  in- 
land about  the  ears  of  the  fleeing  natives. 

O'Rourke  sat  him  down  upon  the  sands  and  produced  a 
cigar,  which  he  trimmed  with  careful  nicety  and  lit. 

"Your  majesty,"  he  told  fa  petit  Lemercier,  "the  Empire 

[I03] 


Terence  O'Rourke,  Gentleman  Adventurer 

of  the  Sahara  has  been  baptized  indeed,  this  night  —  and 
with  blood." 

But  his  majesty  the  Emperor  Leopold  only  stared  vacantly 
at  his  general.  His  majesty's  eyes  looked  dull,  as  though 
he  were  dazed  by  a  swift  blow,  and  his  teeth  chattered  —  but 
whether  from  fear  or  from  the  biting  night  wind  of  the  desert, 
O'Rourke  could  not  say. 


CHAPTER  XII 

HE  RESPECTS  A  FLAG  OF  TRUCE 

WITHIN  fifteen  minutes  after  the  return  of  O'Rourke  to 
the  beach,  all  were  aboard  the  Eirene,  and  over  the  sandhills 
reigned  a  silence  as  profound  as  though  they  had  not  been 
the  scene  of  a  furious  skirmish  half  an  hour  before. 

The  commander  of  the  yacht  deemed  it  advisable  to  keep 
up  a  peppering  of  the  desert  with  the  machine  guns  at  inter- 
vals throughout  the  night,  but  O'Rourke  decided  against 
this  measure. 

"  Ye'll  hear  no  more  of  the  Tawareks,"  he  told  Lemercier 
confidently  —  "for  a  while,  at  least.  I  rather  fancy  we've 
taught  them  a  lesson  that  they  will  not  be  quick  to  forget. 
But  the  morning  will  decide  that;  then  we  can  go  ashore  and 
look  over  the  battle-ground."  He  laughed,  as  a  tried  sol- 
dier might,  at  his  dignifying  of  the  conflict  with  the  name  of 
battle. 

"For  the  rest  of  the  night,"  he  continued,  "'twill be  suffi- 
cient to  arm  the  watch  and  keep  them  on  the  lookout.  Also, 
'twould  be  advisable  to  continue  the  use  of  the  searchlight; 
'twill  do  no  manner  of  harm,  and  may  do  good.  The  rockets 
frightened  them;  the  searchlight  may  keep  up  the  good  work." 

"  Convey  my  orders  to  that  effect  to  the  captain,"  responded 
le  petit  Lemercier,  who  had  by  now  recovered  from  his  fright. 
"In  half  an  hour,  monsieur,  I  shall  expect  you  to  attend  a 
council  of  war  in  the  saloon." 

"I'll  be  wid  yez,  your  majesty,"  promised  O'Rourke, 

[105] 


Terence  O'Rourke,  Gentleman  Adventurer 

himself  still  gay  —  laughing  as  a  man  will,  half-intoxicated 
with  the  wine  of  war.  "Faith,"  he  told  himself,  "'tis 
O'Rourke  who  is  not  sorry  that  he's  here!" 

But  perhaps  the  light  he  had  seen  in  the  eyes  of  Madame 
la  Princesse  had  somewhat  to  do  with  his  self-satisfaction. 

He  saw  the  captain,  and  later  hurried  off  to  the  sick  ward 
to  see  primarily  what  could  be  done  for  Danny;  afterwards 
he  was  concerned  for  the  other  wounded. 

Two  dead  and  eight  wounded  were  the  casualties  which 
had  been  sustained  by  the  little  army  of  occupation.  Pour 
men  had  been  wounded  but  slightly,  among  them  the  man 
Soly,  whom  O'Rourke  had  disciplined  at  Las  Palmas;  a  bul- 
let had  plowed  a  furrow  across  his  shoulder,  which  proved 
painful,  but  not  serious. 

Of  the  four  others,  however,  one  was  expected  to  die  —  an 
ex-Spahi,  whose  chest  had  been  torn  open;  one  other  must 
wear  his  arm  in  splints,  for  a  time,  perforce  of  a  shattered 
forearm,  and  another  would  have  to  lie  upon  his  back  for 
weeks  pending  the  healing  of  a  hole  in  his  lungs. 

As  for  Danny,  the  poor  fellow  was  unconscious;  the  shot 
of  the  Tawarek  had  taken  effect  in  the  back  of  his  head,  ae^r 
the  base  of  his  brain  —  perilously  near. 

O'Rourke  cursed  himself  for  his  stupidity,  not  only  it 
ordering  the  man  into  certain  danger,  but  for  another  more 
serious  oversight;  he,  upon  whom  had  devolved  the  bulk  of 
the  military  preparations,  had  neglected  securing  the  services 
of  a  surgeon. 

But,  like  most  veterans,  he  had  some  slight  knowledge, 
himself,  of  the  treatment  of  wounds  and  the  care  of  the 
wounded;  and  with  the  assistance  of  Chambret  —  always 
willing  to  do  what  he  termed  "his  possible"  —  and  of  the 
yacht's  medicine  chest,  which  happened  by  good  chance  to 

[106] 


He  Respects  a  Flag  of  Truce 

be  well  stocked,  the  Irishman  was  able  to  accomplish  much 
toward  alleviating  the  sufferings  of  the  stricken. 

Two  of  them  he  relieved  of  lodged  bullets;  and  concerning 
the  remainder  his  mind  was  at  rest  with  the  double  exception 
of  Danny  and  the  man  with  the  torn  chest.  For  them  he 
knew  not  what  to  do;  Danny's  wound  was  so  close  upon  the 
delicate  regions  of  the  brain  that  he  dared  not  probe  for  the 
bullet;  and  the  other  was  beyond  help. 

He  told  Chambret  this,  turning  a  face  to  the  Frenchman 
that  was  lined  deep  with  his  mental  trouble  and  with  sorrow 
for  the  plight  of  his  countryman. 

"In  sober  truth,"  he  declared,  "I  don't  know  what  the 
divvle  to  do  for  them.  'Tis  meself  that's  no  angel  to  soothe 
their  agonies." 

Chambret,  who  had  watched  with  growing  admiration  the 
Irishman  as  he  moved  about  attending  to  the  sufferers  with  a 
sympathy  that  seemed  almost  womanly  and  with  hands  as 
soft  and  gentle  as  a  child's,  smiled  sadly,  and  shook  his  head. 

"You  have  my  sympathy,  mon  ami,"  he  assured  him;  "but 
the  fatal  mistake  lay  in  not  bringing  a  surgeon." 

"Faith,  then,"  cried  O'Rourke,  "we'll  just  have  to  go  for 
one!" 

"  Comment  ?"  demanded  Chambret,  wondering  if  O'Rourke 
was  out  of  his  senses  to  suggest  obtaining  a  surgeon's  services 
in  that  howling  wilderness. 

"I  say,"  repeated  O'Rourke,  "that  these  men  shall  have 
proper  attention.  If  Monsieur  1'Empereur"  —  he  sneered 
slightly  —  "is  to  found  his  empire  in  the  hearts  of  his  ser- 
vants he'll  be  obliged  to  turn  the  Eirene  back  to  Las  Palmas." 

Chambret  whistled. 

"I  prophesy  trouble,  monsieur,  if  that  is  the  advice  you  will 
give  his  majesty. " 


"Me  soul!  Trouble?  If  he  denies  me,  'tis  himself  who'll 
have  all  the  trouble  he  desires!" 

Again  the  Frenchman  made  a  sign  of  dissent. 

"It  will  not  be  his  majesty  who  will  deny  you,  but  — "  he 
shrugged  his  shoulders  expressively. 

"  Monsieur  le  Prince  ?  " 

"You  have  said  it,  monsieur." 

The  Irishman  snapped  his  fingers  angrily. 

"That  for  the  whelp!"  he  declared. 

"You  do  not  fear  him?" 

"  Fear  —  him  ?    Mon  ami,  ye  do  not  know  me." 

"You  are  a  bold  man,  monsieur,  to  think  of  defying  his 
highness." 

"I  suppose  he  will  think  so,"  said  O'Rourke  shortly,  pre- 
paring to  leave  the  sick  bay.  "But,  come,  Monsieur  Cham- 
bret.  Ye  attend  the  conference  ?" 

"If  you  seriously  purpose  to  advance  your  proposition, 
monsieur,  wild  horses  would  not  serve  to  keep  me  away." 

The  Frenchman  joined  arms  with  O'Rourke,  laughing. 

"A  bold  man!"  he  repeated.  "Bold,  indeed,  to  brave  the 
displeasure  of  Monsieur  le  Prince,  Felix  de  Grandlieu!  I 
have  told  you  that  he  is  a  noted  duelist?" 

"A  noted  coward,  Chambret!"  O'Rourke  muttered  an 
impolite  Anglo-Saxon  epithet  that  appealed  to  him  as  highly 
applicable  to  the  character  of  Prince  Felix.  "If  he  does  me 
the  honor,"  he  growled,  "of  calling  me  out,  I'll  take  all  the 
pleasure  in  life  in  blowing  his  ugly  head  off  his  shoulders." 

Again  Chambret  laughed. 

"Decidedly,  monsieur,"  he  said  lightly,  "when  we  come 
to  settle  our  affair  I  must  be  on  my  guard !" 

"Our  affair!    I  thought  ye  had  forgotten  that." 

"Non,  monsieur;  the  blow  I  can  forgive  you,  now  that  I 

[108] 


He  Respects  a  Flag  of  Truce 

know  you.  But  there  are  other  things."  He  paused  mean- 
ingly. 

O'Rourke  disengaged  his  arm. 

"As  to  what?"  he  demanded  sharply. 

"As  to  —  madame." 

It  was  O'Rourke's  turn  to  whistle.  "Lies  the  wind  that 
way,  d'ye  tell  me?  There,  indeed,  have  we  cause  for  dis- 
agreement, man  ami  I " 

"All  in  good  time,"  returned  Chambret  patiently;  "wait 
until  this  chimera  of  empire  is  dissipated.  Then,  by  the 
grace  of  God,  I  shall  balance  accounts  with  monsieur.  For 
the  present,  we  are  —  what  you  say?  —  partners." 

"Faith,  'tis  yourself  has  a  queer  way  of  showing  it  I" 

They  were  now  on  deck,  walking  aft  toward  the  main- 
saloon.  The  yacht  was  as  silent  as  a  dream  ship,  with  but 
the  faintest  of  lapping  under  her  quarters  as  she  rose  and 
fell  upon  the  tide.  They  ceased  their  conversation,  sud- 
denly, under  the  spell  of  the  night's  beauty;  and  that  was 
supreme,  resplendent  with  the  multitude  of  high,  clear,  won- 
derful stars  that  cluster  above  the  desert;  a  black  night  and 
cold  —  nipping  cold  as  are  all  nights  upon  the  Sahara. 

Upon  the  shore  the  long,  deliberate  surge  of  the  Atlantic 
broke  monotonously,  beating  prolonged  rolls  that  merged 
with  and  became  a  part  of  the  stillness;  only  the  occasional 
hiss  and  splutter  of  the  searchlight  in  the  bows  actually  dis- 
turbed the  quiet  as  its  fierce,  white,  glaring  lance  wheeled  and 
veered  out  over  the  desert  or  darted  skywards,  clearly  defined 
in  the  dust-laden  air,  like  a  sword  of  wrath  trembling  over 
the  heads  of  the  Tawareks. 

Here  and  there  one  of  the  watch  leaned  idly  upon  the  rail, 
his  carbine  ready  to  his  hand,  his  eyes  fixed  undeviatingly 
upon  the  shore  line;  and  presently  the  two,  the  Gaul  and  the 

[109] 


Terence  O'Rourke,  Gentleman  Adventurer 

Celt,  united  in  war  and  divided  in  love,  came  upon  le  petit 
Lemercier  himself,  standing  by  the  rail,  and  talking  in  low 
tones  with  his  familiar  daemon,  Monsieur  le  Prince. 

He  looked  around  and  nodded  as  they  approached,  con- 
tinuing his  conversation  in  a  somewhat  higher  pitch,  as  a  man 
will  when  improvising  talk  to  cover  some  awkward  contre- 
temps. 

O'Rourke  remarked  this,  and  nodded  significantly  to 
Chambret,  whose  eyes  likewise  showed  his  comprehension  of 
the  situation  —  that  Monsieur  le  Prince  had  been  caught  in 
the  act  of  poisoning  the  mind  of  the  emperor  against  one  or 
both  of  the  allies. 

"Here,"  invented  the  Lemercier,  "will  be  our  harbor  — 
widened  and  deepened  by  dredging.  Here,  also,  we  will 
build  long  quays  of  stone  and  iron  out  into  the  ocean,  making 
it  an  ideal  port  for  the  desert  caravans,  who  shall  here  bring 
their  gums,  their  ivory,  their  gold  and  rich  stuffs,  and  here 
obtain  their  supplies,  sold  them  at  cost  by  a  paternal  govern- 
ment." 

"Here,  by  all  means,"  echoed  the  intriguing  prince. 

"And  now,  messieurs,"  continued  the  emperor,  turning, 
"to  our  conference,  since  you  are  ready." 

He  looked  toward  O'Rourke,  or  rather  toward  the  place 
where  O'Rourke  had  been;  but  his  lieutenant-general  was 
gone,  running  up  the  deck  as  though  fear  itself  were  treading 
close  upon  his  heels. 

Chambret  stood  staring  after  him  with  mouth  agape;  in 
his  surprise  the  emperor  took  a  couple  of  steps  after  the  hurry- 
ing man,  then  halted,  amazed. 

He  saw  the  Irishman  leap  suddenly  and  fall  upon  the  shoul- 
ders of  one  of  the  watch,  whose  carbine  promptly  slipped 
from  his  grasp,  and  splashed  in  the  waters  of  the  harbor. 

[no] 


He  Respects  a  Flag  of  Truce 

"Not  that,  ye  damn  fool!"  he  cried.  "D'ye  want  to  ruin 
us  all?" 

The  man  squirmed,  spluttering  with  surprise,  choking  with 
explanations.  Lemercier  arrived  just  in  time  to  place  a  stay- 
ing hand  upon  the  infuriated  Irishman's  arm,  and  to  secure 
the  release  of  the  hapless  sentry. 

"What  are  you  about,  monsieur?"  he  demanded  angrily. 

"About?"  roared  the  Irishman.  " Look  ye  there  1  And 
this  fool  would  have  killed  him  had  I  not  happened  to  see  him 
raise  his  gun!" 

His  majesty  glanced  in  the  direction  the  Irishman  had  in- 
dicated; he  noticed  that  the  searchlight  was  holding  steady, 
unswerving;  and  there,  upon  the  beach,  in  the  center  of  the 
disk  of  illumination,  was  the  figure  of  a  Tawarek,  standing 
alone,  erect,  motionless,  wrapped  about  with  a  burnoose  of 
crimson  and  gold,  masked  in  black  to  his  eyes,  disdainful  and 
dignified  despite  the  nature  of  his  errand. 

In  one  hand,  outstretched,  he  bore  a  long  lance;  a  cloth  of 
white  dangled  from  its  tip. 

"A  flag  of  truce!"  cried  O'Rourke.  "He  has  come  as  an 
envoy  to  make  peace  with  ye,  Monsieur  1'Empereur!  And 
this  —  this  blockhead  would  have  spoiled  it  all!" 

"I  will  have  no  dealings  with  him,"  announced  le  petit 
Lemercier,  haughtily  turning  his  shoulder  to  O'Rourke. 
"Let  the  man  fire." 

"Your  majesty,"  protested  O'Rourke,  "that  is  madness — " 

"They  attacked  us,"  persisted  the  emperor  coldly. 

"They  rule  the  desert,"  expostulated  the  Irishman.  "Ye 
were  speaking  of  opening  a  port  for  the  caravan  trade.  With- 
out the  cooperation  of  these  desert  pirates  ye  will  gain  noth- 
ing; if  they  oppose  ye  they  will  never  permit  one  caravan  to 
pass  into  your  territories!" 

[in] 


Terence  O'Rourke,  Gentleman  Adventurer 

"That  is  so,"  counseled  Monsieur  Ic  Prince.  "The  ad- 
vice of  Monsieur  le  Colonel  is  good,  your  majesty." 

"Very  well,"  le  petit  Lemercier  gave  in,  regretfully;  "have 
him  aboard,  then,  and  see  what  he  wants." 

He  swung  upon  his  heel,  and  went  into  the  saloon,  ap- 
parently highly  offended  by  this  disputation  of  his  wishes. 
But  the  Irishman  was  too  elated  by  the  victory  to  care  aught 
for  le  petit  Lemercier's  humor.  He  turned  to  the  sentry, 
and  caught  him  by  the  shoulders. 

"When  ye've  served  under  me  another  minute,  me  boy," 
he  told  the  man,  "  ye' 11  know  better  than  to  fire  without  orders. 
What's  that  ye  say?" 

"Monsieur,"  declared  the  man,  "I  have  served  long  with 
the  camel  corps  in  Algeria.  Our  orders  were  to  shoot  a 
Tawarek  on  sight." 

"Well,  then,  there's  some  excuse  for  ye.  But  in  the  future 
be  careful.  Now,  go  and  find  me  a  man  who  speaks  the  lan- 
guage of  these  devils." 

The  soldier  saluted,  and  went  off  hurriedly,  glad  to  escape 
further  reprimand.  As  he  did  so,  the  man  Soly  slipped  for- 
ward, out  of  the  obscurity  of  the  night,  and  saluted. 

"Monsieur,"  he  said  humbly,  avoiding  O'Rourke's  eye, 
"  I  was  passing  and  heard  what  you  desired." 

"Well?" 

"I  speak  Tamahak  —  the  language  of  the  Tawareks,  mon 
general." 

"Very  well.    Hail  that  fellow  and  find  out  what  he  wants." 

The  former  member  of  the  sans  souci  went  to  the  rail  and 
cupped  his  hands  about  his  mouth;  the  next  moment  a  thin, 
wailing  cry,  nearly  the  counterpart  of  that  which  had  been 
ihe  signal  for  the  shooting  of  Danny,  trembled  upon  the  still- 
ness. 

[II2J 


He  Respects  a  Flag  of  Truce 

The  Tawarek  moved  slightly  —  for  the  first  time  since  he 
had  appeared  upon  the  beach;  he  waved  his  lance,  making 
the  flag  of  truce  flutter,  and  answered  the  call.  Again  Soly 
hailed  him,  and  again  he  replied. 

"Well?  Well?"  demanded  O'Rourke  impatiently. 

"He  says  that  he  is  come  to  arrange  peace,"  interpreted 
the  man;  "that  you  are  to  send  a  boat  to  bring  him  aboard." 

"The  nerve  of  him!"  muttered  O'Rourke. 

Nervetheless,  he  gave  orders  to  have  the  boat  lowered  and 
manned  by  a  heavily  armed  crew;  at  the  same  time  he  directed 
that  the  deck  guns  should  be  trained  upon  the  shore. 

"Tell  him,"  he  ordered  Soly,  "that  we  will  send  for  him, 
but  that  at  the  first  sign  of  treachery  we'll  blow  him.  into 
eternity!" 

Soly  complied  readily,  but  the  Tawarek  preserved  a  digni- 
fied silence. 

While  the  boat  was  making  for  the  shore  the  Irishman 
ordered  that  the  searchlight  should  sweep  the  surrounding 
desert,  following  its  path  with  his  binoculars;  they  showed 
to  him  no  further  sign  of  the  enemy  —  naught,  in  fact,  save 
that  solitary,  gorgeous  figure,  waiting  patiently  upon  the 
beach. 


CHAPTER  XIH 

HE  PROVES  HIMSELF  MASTER  OF  MEN 

PRESENTLY,  the  boat  scraped  and  bumped  against  the  side; 
the  first  to  ascend  was  Soly,  the  second  the  Tawarek. 

O'Rourke  was  awaiting  him  at  the  head  of  the  gangway, 
respectfully,  as  befitted  the  welcomer  of  a  man  of  rank  and 
place  in  his  country  —  as  the  Irishman  suspected  the  visitor 
to  be.  To  none  else  than  a  head  man,  he  considered,  would 
such  an  errand  be  intrusted  —  a  matter  which  affected  the 
interests  of  a  whole  tribe. 

Nor  was  he  wrong,  as  he  realized  when  the  Tawarek  stalked 
past  him  without  deigning  him  a  glance  or  a  word.  The  man 
Soly  himself  had  jumped  at  once  to  the  threshold  of  the  sa- 
loon door,  where  he  stood  at  attention,  his  keen  eyes  furtively 
alternating  between  the  faces  of  the  Irishman,  the  native 
envoy  and  those  in  the  interior  of  the  cabin. 

To'  him,  evidently  content  to  recognize  in  the  man  who 
spoke  his  native  Tamahak  his  only  friend,  the  Tawarek  went 
direct,  and  when  the  soldier  stepped  to  one  side,  accepted 
the  implied  invitation  and  entered  the  saloon. 

O'Rourke  followed,  —  himself  a  large  man,  but  dwarfed 
for  the  moment  by  the  huge  stature  of  the  enormous 
Tawarek. 

Fully  six  feet  six  inches  in  height  (a  tallness  not  unusual 
among  his  kin,  however),  and  broad  and  heavy  in  propor- 
tion, he  stood  with  his  shoulders  well  back  and  proudly,  as 
became  a  free  lord  of  the  Sahara,  one  who  neither  bows  the 

["4] 


He  Proves  Himself  Master  of  Men 

knee  nor  pays  tribute  to  any  man  —  as  are  the  Tawareks  all, 
even  the  most  beggarly  of  them. 

His  burnoose  was  richly  embroidered  with  gold,  and  of  the 
finest  silken  mesh,  heavily  lined  for  a  protection  against  the 
cold  of  the  desert  nights.  This  he  presently  threw  aside, 
disclosing  a  costume  of  yellow  silk  over  a  shirt  and  baggy 
trousers  ending  somewhat  below  the  knee,  both  of  white; 
across  his  shoulders  and  about  his  waist  ran  a  sash  belt,  into 
which  were  stuck  handily  heavy  cavalry  revolvers  of  a  now 
obsolete  type,  but  for  all  that  deadly  weapons  in  competent 
hands. 

For  a  headdress  he  wore  a  turban  of  white,  with  a  flap  of 
black  silk  hanging  down  across  his  forehead  to  his  brows; 
and  sharply  across  the  middle  of  his  face  was  a  second  cloth; 
the  two  leaving  but  his  eyes  and  a  portion  of  the  bridge  of  his 
nose  visible.  But  those  eyes  were  keen,  straightforward, 
quick;  deeply  set  and  wrinkled  about  with  that  network  of 
fine  lines  which  comes  from  steady  gazing  over  plains  glaring 
in  the  full  of  the  noonday  sun. 

O'Rourke  stepped  to  his  side;  for  a  moment  the  two  men 
stood,  eying  one  another  with  respect,  —  men,  both  of  them, 
of  giant  build  and  free  carriage,  in  contrast  striking  to 
the  others  in  the  saloon:  to  the  weaklings,  Mouchon  and 
D'Ervy;  to  Monsieur  le  Prince,  padded,  emaciated:  to  the 
weary-eyed  Lemercier,  posing  himself  with  an  assumption 
of  the  dignity  that  should  become  an  emperor,  —  perhaps 
really  believing  in  his  heart  that  he  wore  the  majesty  of  men 
born  to  rule.  Only  Chambret  approached  either  O'Rourke 
or  the  Tawarek  in  size  or  dignity  of  address;  and  Chambret 
was  discreetly  effacing  himself,  as  far  as  possible  from  the 
center  of  the  group. 

After  a  brief  interchange  of  glances,  the  Tawarek  bowed 

["51 


Terence  O'Rourke,  Gentleman  Adventurer 

his  head  slightly,  in  lordly  salutation  of  O'Rourke,  acknowl- 
edging the  one  man  whom  he  had  failed  to  look  down.  The 
Irishman  smiled,  and  motioned  towards  a  chair,  which  the 
Tawarek  accepted  with  suspicions  that  were  evidenced  by 
the  excess  of  precautions  he  took  in  seating  himself. 

So  far,  no  words  had  passed.  Soly  had  entered  upon  a 
gesture  from  O'Rourke,  and  stood  at  one  side,  leering,  ready 
when  called  upon  to  play  his  role  of  interpreter. 

A  blaze  of  electric  light  was  in  the  cabin;  the  Tawarek 
blinked  in  its  glare,  then  set  himself  to  study  the  faces  of 
these  men  who  were  invading  his  land  —  the  land  sacred  to 
him  by  the  rights  of  occupation  dating  back  into  the  fogs  of 
antiquity. 

His  sharp,  bold  eyes  flitted  from  face  to  face,  challenging, 
reading,  rejecting  with  disdain  all  save  O'Rourke  and  Cham- 
bret.  In  the  end  it  was  to  O'Rourke  that  he  turned  and 
addressed  himself  in  a  few  words  of  Tamahak,  his  voice  low 
and  pleasantly  modulated,  his  words  deferentially  spoken. 

To  Lemercier  O'Rourke  looked.  "Your  majesty,"  he 
said,  keeping  straight  and  serious  the  mouth  that  always 
was  tempted  to  twitch  at  the  corners  when  he  used  the  title 
which  Leopold  had  arrogated  unto  himself:  "your  majesty, 
'tis  meself  that's  had  some  experience  with  these  men  in  the 
Soudan,  as  ye  know.  Have  I  your  permission  to  treat  with 
him?" 

"Yes,"  granted  Lemercier  graciously. 

"What  does  he  say,  Soly?"  inquired  the  Irishman,  turning 
to  the  guest. 

The  soldier  interpreted:  "He  says  that  he  is  Ibeni,  chief- 
tain of  all  the  Tawareks  hereabouts.  He  says,  monsieur, 
that  if  harm  comes  to  him  his  people  will  rally  in  force  and 
sweep  your  dead  bodies  into  the  sea." 

[116] 


He  Proves  Himself  Master  of  Men 

"The  hell  he  does!"  commented  the  Irishman,  without 
moving  a  muscle  of  his  face  for  the  Tawarek  to  read.  "  Tell 
him  that  he  is  as  safe  here  as  in  his  own  camp." 

Soly  interpreted  again ;  the  Tawarek  replied  at  length. 

"He  says,  man  general,  that  he  desires  to  know  who  you 
may  be,  what  your  purpose  here,  how  long  you  intend  to  stay; 
and  by  what  right  you  invade  the  lands  of  the  Tawareks  with- 
out arranging  to  pay  tribute  to  the  tribe." 

"Tell  him,"  replied  O'Rourke,  "that  we  are  Frenchmen 
by  birth,  for  the  most  part,  subjects  by  inclination  of  Leopold 
Premier,  1'Empereur  du  Sahara." 

"Tell  him  that  we  come  to  make  oases  in  the  desert  by 
digging  wells,  that  we  purpose  to  build  up  here  a  land  as 
fertile  as  the  Soudan  or  Senegal,  and  to  establish  a  port  for 
the  trade  of  caravans  and  ships.  Tell  him  that  we  shall  stay 
as  long  as  the  sun  hangs  in  the  sky;  and  as  for  tribute,  tell 
him  to  go  to  —  No,"  he  interrupted  himself  laughingly; 
"don't  tell  him  that.  Your  majesty"  —  turning  to  le  petit 
Lemercier  —  "  for  the  sake  of  peace,  let  me  advise  that  ye 
pay  the  tribute  demanded  be  this  man.  I  promise  ye  that 
it  will  not  be  large." 

Lemercier  coughed,  hesitated,  glanced  at  his  mentor, 
Monsieur  le  Prince.  The  latter's  expression  negatived  the 
proposition  decidedly. 

"No  tribute,"  announced  the  emperor. 

"If  Monsieur  the  Prince  will  permit  me  to  disagree,"  dis- 
puted O'Rourke  suavely;  "he  is  in  the  wrong.  The  United 
States  Government,  your  majesty,  pays  the  Indians  for  the 
lands  it  takes  from  them.  We  have  to  consider  that  these 
Tawareks  regard  the  Sahara  as  their  land  as  jealously  as  the 
American  Indians  held  theirs.  What  tribute  he  exacts  will 
amount  to  little  in  Monsieur  1'Empereur's  estimation,  but 

[117] 


Terence  O'Rourke,  Gentleman  Adventurer 

it  will  insure  peace,  and  it  will  insure  the  unmolested  passage 
of  caravans  through  the  territory  of  the  Empire  of  the  Sahara. 
I  presume  your  majesty  does  not  contemplate  a  chicken- 
hearted  withdrawing  of  his  hand  at  this  late  day  ?  " 

"Most  certainly  not,"  declared  Lemercier,  flushing  under 
the  sting  in  the  Irishman's  irony. 

"And  I  am  sure  that  Monsieur  le  Prince  does  not  wish  a 
repetition  of  this  evening's  excitement.  Let  me  promise  ye, 
messieurs,  that  if  tribute  be  not  paid  to  these  men,  pirates 
though  they  be,  each  day  will  see  a  duplicate  of  the  skirmish 
of  to-day.  Ye  will  need  regiments,  messieurs,  rather  than 
tens,  of  men,  if  this  is  to  be  your  method  of  conquering  — ' 

"  Enough,"  interrupted  le  petit  Lemercier  —  avoiding  the 
eyes  of  Monsieur  le  Prince,  however;  "tell  him  that  we  will 
pay  in  reason." 

"Ask  him  how  much,"  O'Rourke  instructed  Soly,  who 
had  meanwhile  been  steadily  translating  to  the  Tawarek. 

"One  thousand  francs  in  gold  yearly,"  was  the  reply;  "for 
that  he  assures  you  safety  and  freedom  from  molestation 
from  his  or  other  tribes." 

"We  will  pay  it,"  said  Lemercier,  smiling  at  the  insignifi- 
cance of  the  sum. 

O'Rourke  could  not  repress  a  triumphant  glance  at 
Monsieur  le  Prince. 

"Your  majesty  has  the  gold  handy,  I  have  no  doubt?"  he 
suggested. 

"Get  it,  D'Ervy,"  commanded  his  majesty. 

That  individual  went  upon  his  errand,  returning  with  the 
money  in  a  canvas  bag;  it  was  handed  the  Tawarek,  who 
accepted  as  his  by  right,  and  placed  it  in  a  fold  of  his 
burnoose. 

With  a  few  more  words  he  rose  as  if  to  go. 


He  Proves  Himself  Master  of  Men 

"He  places  the  countryside  at  your  disposal,  messieurs," 
interpreted  the  man  Soly;  "he  says  that,  in  the  morning,  he 
and  his  men  will  be  far  from  the  oasis  El  Kebr,  as  he  calls  it. 
He  bids  you  good-evening,  intrusting  you  to  the  care  of 
Allah." 

"One  moment,"  O'Rourke  told  him;  "inform  Monsieur 
Ibeni,  or  whatever  his  name  is,  that  in  token  of  our  good- will 
we  wish  to  make  him  a  little  present." 

He  drew  from  his  holster  a  revolver  of  the  latest  type  —  a 
quick-firing,  hair-trigger,  hammerless  forty-four  caliber. 
The  eyes  of  the  masked  chieftain  glistened  covetously  as  they 
fell  upon  this  weapon  whose  range  and  worth  his  tribe  had 
cause  to  bear  in  mind. 

With  one  movement  of  his  arm  O'Rourke  swung  the 
weapon  above  his  head,  pointing  it  through  the  open  sky- 
light, and  pulled  the  trigger.  The  six  shots  rang  as  one  pro- 
longed report. 

In  an  instant  the  ship  was  in  an  uproar;  the  men  came 
running  from  their  quarters;  Soly,  by  O'Rourke's  orders,  re- 
assured them,  motioning  them  back  from  the  companionway. 

Even  Madame  la  Princesse  had  been  startled;  she  opened 
the  door  of  her  stateroom  and  stepped  into  the  saloon,  pale 
and  tight-lipped  with  anxiety. 

O'Rourke  was  apprised  of  her  entrance  by  the  eyes  of  the 
Tawarek,  who,  it  may  be,  had  never  before  seen  a  woman  of 
civilization  —  though  there  is  little  likelihood  of  that.  But 
certainly  he  had  never  looked  upon  a  woman  more  fair  nor 
one  more  sweetly  beautiful.  Her  experience  of  the  evening 
had  set  its  mark  transiently  upon  her  face,  ringing  her  eyes 
with  dark  circles  that  served  but  to  accentuate  their  loveli- 
ness. And  the  glance  of  the  Tawarek  lightened  and  grew 
more  bold  as  it  fell  upon  her. 


She  moved  slowly  toward  the  group  about  the  native. 

"Messieurs,"  she  said,  a  bit  unsteadily,  looking  from  face 
to  face,  "is  —  is  there  anything  amiss?" 

"Only  me  folly,  madame,"  replied  the  Irishman  bowing 
gallantly;  "'tis  meself  that  should  have  remembered  the  shots 
would  alarm  ye.  I  crave  madame's  pardon.  I  was  but 
demonstrating  the  beauties  of  this  revolver  to  monsieur  the 
Tawarek;  I  fired  it  for  that  purpose  and  for  another  —  to 
prevent  his  using  it  if  perchance  he  were  inclined  to  be  treach- 
erous ere  leaving  us.  Soly,  find  a  box  of  cartridges  for  this 
gentleman." 

He  broke  the  weapon  at  the  cylinder,  ejecting  the  still 
vaporing  cartridges,  whipped  a  silk  handkerchief  through 
the  barrel,  and  handed  the  revolver  to  the  Tawarek. 

Soly  returned  with  the  cartridges;  the  chieftain  accepting 
both  with  words  of  gratitude.  His  mask  concealed  whatever 
facial  expression  he  may  have  had,  and  it  was  only  from  his 
eyes  that  they  might  guess  something  of  his  emotions;  for  his 
gaze  had  not  left  madame  since  she  had  appeared  in  the 
saloon.  Even  as  he  took  his  leave,  which  he  did  with  a  scant 
bow  to  O'Rourke  and  a  total  ignoring  of  the  remainder  of 
the  party,  he  continued  to  watch  Madame  la  Princesse  until 
he  had  reached  the  foot  of  the  companionway,  when  he 
turned,  made  her  a  low  obeisance,  and  vanished,  accom- 
panied by  O'Rourke. 

The  commander-in-chief  was  occupied  on  deck  for  several 
minutes,  seeing  the  Tawarek  over  the  side,  and  watching 
the  boat  on  its  journey  to  and  from  the  beach.  He  then 
had  the  men  dismissed  from  their  places  at  the  guns, 
and  before  returning  to  the  saloon  he  sent  away  the  man, 
Soly,  to  his  quarters,  and  said  a  low  word  to  three  grave 
Turcos-  These  nodded  comprehension,  and  placed  them- 

[120 1 


He  Proves  Himself  Master  of  Men 

selves  at  no   great  distance  from  the  saloon  companion- 
way. 

When  he  rejoined  the  council,  his  princess  had  left  the 
saloon  for  her  stateroom;  chairs  were  drawn  up  around  the 
central  table,  champagne  was  being  served  by  the  steward 
and  partaken  of  by  Monsieur  1'Empereur,  Monsieur  le  Prince, 
D'Ervy,  and  Mouchon.  Chambret  sat  some  distance  apart, 
thoughtfully  consuming  a  cigarette. 

Lemercier  looked  up  and  indicated  a  chair;  his  attitude 
was  not  one  of  great  welcome  for  the  commander-in-chief 
of  his  forces,  however;  it  was  momentarily  becoming  more 
evident  to  the  Irishman  that  in  his  own  case  Prince  Felix  had 
been  successful  in  his  attempt  to  turn  le  petit  Lemercier's 
favor  to  displeasure. 

For  the  present,  however,  he  was  disposed  to  pass  this  over. 
He  had  planned  his  battle;  in  his  mind  he  had  already  won 
it.  It  remained  but  for  matters  to  come  to  an  issue  between 
himself  and  Prince  Felix. 

"We  were  saying,  monsieur,"  said  Monsieur  le  Prince 
languidly  to  O'Rourke,  "that,  since  our  little  affair  with 
your  friends,  the  Tawareks,  is  settled,  our  next  move 
should  be  to  address  a  note  to  the  Powers,  proclaiming 
the  sovereignty  of  Leopold  as  the  first  Emperor  of  the 
Sahara." 

"To  the  contrary,"  objected  O'Rourke;  "your  first  move 
is  to  establish  your  base,  to  found  your  capital  city;  then  to 
encourage  or  in  some  way  to  procure  a  respectable  coloniza- 
tion. An  empire  of  some  forty  population  is  an  absurdity 
on  the  face  of  it.  Do  ye  seriously  expect  the  Powers  to 
recognize  such  a  comic  opera  affair?" 

There  fell  a  moment's  silence;  Monsieur  le  Prince  was  any- 
thing but  pdeasedj  the  look  he  gave  the  Irishman  was  evidence 


Terence  O'Rourke,  Gentleman  Adventurer 

enough  of  the  esteem  in  which  he  held  him.  But  O'Rourke 
only  smiled  benignly  upon  the  prime  minister. 

As  for  his  majesty,  Leopold,  his  face  had  lengthened  witb 
disappointment;  shallow  though  he  was,  yet  he  had  occa- 
sional glimmerings  of  common  sense,  even  as  he  exhibited 
occasional  flashes  of  spirit.  He  could  but  recognize  the  jus- 
tice of  O'Rourke's  pronouncement;  and  he  was  not  alone  fain 
to  bow  to  superior  wisdom,  but  also  generous  enough  to 
acknowledge  it.  Therefore  he  ignored  the  black  looks  of 
Monsieur  le  Prince  and  agreed  with  the  Irishman. 

"Another  thing,"  propounded  the  latter:  "Your  first 
duty,  your  majesty,  is  not  to  your  empire.  'Tis  to  hu- 
manity. Two  of  those  who  fought  for  ye  this  day  lie  wounded 
unto  death  in  the  sick  bay;  they  need  immediate  attention 
from  a  skilled  surgeon  if  their  lives  arc  to  be  saved.  Las 
Palmas  is  not  so  distant  that  ye  cannot  spare  time  to  go 
there,"  he  concluded.  "  I  make  so  bold  as  to  advise  an  early 
start  —  this  very  night,  in  fact." 

This  was  the  opening  that  Monsieur  le  Prince  had  been 
awaiting.  He  interrupted  Lemercier's  reply. 

"They  were  paid  to  take  the  risk,"  he  said  coldly;  "let 
them  die.  We  cannot  permit  ourselves  to  be  put  back  for 
a  matter  so  slight." 

"Your  majesty,"  broke  in  Chambret,  "I  have  been  in  the 
sick  bay;  I  can  bear  witness  to  the  urgency — " 

"  One  moment."  Prince  Felix  fixed  his  gaze,  sardonic  and 
cruel,  upon  Chambret.  "  May  I  inquire,  your  majesty,  when 
this  conceited  upstart  became  a  member  of  your  council, 
entitled  to  a  voice  therein?" 

O'Rourke  motioned  the  furious  Chambret  to  silence. 

"I  will  save  his  majesty  the  trouble  of  answering  ye,  Mon- 
sieur le  Prince,"  he  said  calmly.  "  Monsieur  Chambret 

[I22j 


He  Proves  Himself  Master  of  Men 

to-day  was  appointed  me  aide,  me  second  in  command,  and 
me  successor  in  event  of  any  misfortune  of  mine.  As  such, 
he  is  entitled  to  all  rights  as  a  member  of  the  council." 

"Appointments  are  not  valid  unless  ratified  by  the  council," 
objected  Prince  Felix,  choking  down  his  rage. 

"It  is  not  legal  under  your  code,  perhaps,  monsieur,"  ad- 
mitted O'Rourke  fairly.  "Ye  will  recall,  however,  that  the 
Empire  of  the  Sahara  has  no  code  as  yet.  The  appointment 
is  made  by  me,  by  me  authority,  and  will  stand,  I  warn  ye, 
monsieur,  whatever  your  objections  1" 

Monsieur  le  Prince  rose  slowly  from  his  chair,  toying  with 
his  wineglass. 

"Monsieur,"  he  drawled,  his  eyes  narrowing,  his  white 
teeth  showing  through  his  snarl,  "  your  words  verge  perilously 
upon  insolence." 

"If  that  be  insolence,"  retorted  O'Rourke  sweetly,  "ye 
can  make  the  most  of  it!  ...  Be  careful,  monsieur  1  If  ye 
throw  that  glass  at  me,  I'll  have  ye  put  in  irons  I" 

"Canaille!" 

O'Rourke  moved  to  one  side,  quickly;  the  wineglass  shat- 
tered to  a  thousand  fragments  upon  the  wall  behind  him. 

"Ye  fool!"  he  cried,  almost  laughing.  Now  he  had  his 
man  where  he  wanted  him;  he  turned  towards  the  companion- 
way  and  whistled. 

Upon  that  signal  the  three  Turcos  entered,  and  dashed 
down  the  steps,  to  halt  at  the  bottom  and  salute  O'Rourke. 

"Arrest  that  man!"  he  told  them,  indicating  Monsieur  le 
Prince. 

Lemercier,  who  had  seemed  stunned  by  the  sudden  turn 
of  affairs,  jumped  to  his  feet  with  a  cry  of  protest;  but  before 
it  had  passed  his  lips  Prince  Felix  was  helpless  between  two 
Turcos,  a  third  at  his  back  pinioning  his  arms. 

[123] 


Terence  O'Rourke.  Gentleman  Adventurer 

"O'Rourke — "  began  le  petit  Lemercier,  his  face  white 
with  wrath. 

"Leave  me  alone,  your  majesty.  Men,  hold  him.  If  he 
struggles  overmuch  —  ye  know  how  to  discourage  him." 

Prince  Felix  leaped  forward  furiously;  and  the  yell,  com- 
pounded of  rage  and  pain,  that  burst  from  his  lips  as  the 
Turcos  hauled  him  back,  attested  to  the  truth  in  (XRourke's 
suggestion. 

"  Yot*  will  suffer  for  this!"  Monsieur  le  Prince  shrieked. 

"  Oh,  I  hear  ye." 

LeBoercier  sprang  before  O'Rourke,  gesticulating  wildly, 
trembling  with  his  anger  and  excitement. 

"Monsieur,"  he  spluttered,  "I  demand  an  explanation. 
I  insist  that  Prince  Felix  be  released  at  once." 

"Tell  them  so,  then,"  said  O'Rourke  calmly. 

Lemercier  turned  to  the  Turcos  reluctantly.  "  I  command 
you  to  release  him  I"  he  quavered. 

The  Turcos  remained  motionless,  watching  O'Rourke; 
his  majesty  repeated  his  demand,  with  no  more  result.  He 
wheeled  again  upon  O'Rourke. 

"What  do  you  mean?"  he  cried.  "This  is  rebellion  — 
this  is—" 

"I  mean  this,,1'  said  O'Rourke  slowly,  his  eyes  shining: 
"I  mean  that  /  am  master  here,  and  that  I  brook  no  inter- 
ference. I  mean  that  'tis  the  O'Rourke  who  holds  the  bal- 
ance of  power,  for  the  men  are  serving  me  first,  yourself  next, 
monsieur.  They  take  me  commands  while  I  live;  for  they 
know  me,  and  that  I  stand  by  them.  One  moment  more  — 
let  me  finish.  I  mean  that  I  am  in  your  pay,  your  majesty,  for 
the  express  purpose  of  making  ye  an  emperor;  'tis  meself  that 
believes  it  can  be  done,  with  square,  honest  dealing;  I  believe 
that  your  scheme  is  practicable  —  though  Monsieur  le  Prince 

[124] 


He  Proves  Himself  Master  of  Men 

does  not  in  the  black  heart  of  him.  And  I  mean,  further, 
that  I  am  going  to  do  my  damnedest,  monsieur,  to  put  ye  QBL 
a  .throne,  in  spite  of  the  hostility  of  M<MisieuT  le  Prince,,  who 
would  make  of  ye  the  laughing-stock  of  Europe,  and  who 
eventually  would  kill  ye  to  enjoy  your  fortune  be  inheritance. 
I'Jl  do  it,  furthermore,  in  spite  of  the  conspiracies  of  Mes- 
sieurs Mouchon  and  D'Ervy,  his  tools."  He  paused  for 
breath,  then  raised  his  voice  again: 

"We're  south  of  Gibraltar,  messieurs,  and  in  this  land 
every  man  is  his  own  law!  Here,  for  the  time  being,  I  am 
the  law,  your  majesty.  And,  if  ye  show  a  disposition  to  turn 
back  from  your  enterprise,  monsieur — for  now  me  own  honor 
and  reputation  are  at  stake  —  by  God!  I'll  make  ye  an 
emperor  in  spite  of  yourself!" 

He  paused,  breathless  with  his  own  vehemence,  looking 
in  triumph  at  the  group  before  him;  at  Monsieur  le  Prince, 
who,  while  well-nigh  frothing  at  the  mouth  with  rage,  was  yet 
unable  to  free  himself;  at  Mouchon  and  D'Ervy,  who  had 
drawn  back,  panic-stricken;  at  Chambret,  his  face  glowing 
with  delight;  at  the  impassive  Turcos;  finally,  at  his  majesty. 

Leopold  was  staring  blankly  at  him,  like  one  dreaming; 
he  passed  his  hand  over  his  eyes,  dazedly,  as  one  who 
wakens  suddenly,  when  O'Rourke  had  made  an  end  to  his 
speech. 

With  the  shadow  of  disillusionment  fading,  with  the  light 
of  hope  and  faith  again  dawning  upon  his  face,  he  watched 
the  Irishman  intently,  as  though  striving  to  read  his  inmost 
thoughts.  And  by  some  intuitive  power  he  must  have  been 
convinced  of  the  honest  purpose  of  O'Rourke;  or  else  what 
common  sense  he  had  must  have  told  him  that  there  was  but 
one  course  now  open  —  to  trust  the  adventurer. 

Abruptly  he  stepped  forward,  and  seized  the  hand  of 


Terence  O'Rourke,  Gentleman  Adventurer 

Q'Rourke.  "Monsieur,"  he  said  simply,  "I  take  you  at 
your  word  —  and  shall  hold  you  to  it." 

O'Rourke  smiled  his  thanks.  "You'll  not  regret  it,"  said 
he;  then,  to  the  Turcos:  "Release  monsieur." 

For  he  felt  that  he  was  safe  now  —  that  he  had  broken  the 
sway  of  the  favorite,  Monsieur  le  Prince,  Felix  de  Grandlieu. 


[126] 


CHAPTER  XIV 

HE  ACTS  BY  THE  CODE 

AN  irregular  oval  in  form,  in  extent  about  three  acres,  the 
oasis,  El  Kebr,  flourished  around  three  wells. 

Probably  these  had  been  sunk  in  ancient  times,  before  the 
records  of  man,  when  this  desert  of  the  Sahara  had  been  a 
fertile  land,  well-watered  and  luxuriant  of  vegetation,  sup- 
porting an  immense  population.  The  age-old  masonry 
about  their  curbs  attested  to  the  truth  of  this  surmise,  and 
might  have  afforded  interesting  material  for  tne  antiquarian. 

From  the  wells  it  radiated  —  the  oasis  —  a  wilderness  of 
green  growing  things,  interspersed  with  the  slim,  towering 
boles  of  a  grove  of  date  palms;  but  the  sands  were  ever  in- 
sidiously creeping,  creeping  in  toward  the  water;  year  by 
year  the  acreage  of  verdure  was  diminishing,  and,  left  to 
nature,  it  was  only  a  question  of  time  ere  the  desert  would 
hold  full  sway,  even  to  the  lips  of  the  life-giving  wells,  which, 
too,  were  doomed  to  be  choked  and  lost. 

But  for  the  present  it  sufficed  for  the  purposes  of  Monsieur 
PEmpereur,  Leopold  le  Premier.  It  was  settled  upon  by 
him  to  be  the  site  of  his  capital  city  of  the  future  —  Troya,  as 
he  already  called  it  in  the  fervor  of  his  magnificent  imagina- 
tion. 

O'Rourke  came  to  El  Kebr,  early  in  the  following  dawn, 
at  the  head  of  a  party  of  reconnaissance.  It  was  apparent 
that  the  Tawarek,  Ibeni,  had  kept  faith  in  regard  to  his  de- 
parture with  his  men;  satisfied  he  undoubtedly  had  been  to 

[127] 


have  extorted  tribute  money  from  the  invaders,  after  sustain- 
ing at  their  hands  a  putative  defeat;  and  there  was  nought  to 
be  gained  by  lingering  in  the  vicinity  —  unless  it  were  a  grati- 
fication of  his  curiosity. 

On  the  route  to  the  oasis,  however,  no  sign  of  a  Tawarek 
had  been  seen  by  O'Rourke's  command;  and  it  was  there 
only  that  the  natives  had  left  traces  of. their  camp  about  the 
wells* 

O'Rourke  returned  to  the  Eirene,  and  reported,  advising 
his  majesty  that  there  was  in  Ms  judgment  no  cause  to  fear 
another  attack.  Preparations  were  accordingly  put  forward 
with  all  haste  toward  the  fending  of  provisions,  the  tents,  and 
varied  paraphernalia  with  which  the  yacht  bad  been  laden 
with  a  view  to  making  existence  in  the  desert  endurable. 

For  it  had  been  decided  at  a  protracted  session  of  the  coun- 
cil (which  was  suddenly  subservient  to  the  will  of  O'Rourke) 
that  Lemercier  and  his  party  would  not  return  to  Las  Palmas 
with  the  yacht;  they  were  to  land  and  make  a  settlement  — 
in  a  way  as  proof  of  their  good  intentions :  a  first  definite  move 
toward  the  establishment  of  the  Empire  of  the  Sahara. 

Even  Madame  la  Princesse  was  determined  to  stay  by  the 
side  of  her  brother,  and  positively  refused  to  put  herself  out 
of  possible  danger  by  returning  to  Europe,  as  she  had  been 
urged  to  do  by  the  party. 

Chambret  alone  was  to  go  with  the  wounded,  intrusted 
also  with  other  commissions  than  that  of  seeing  Danny  and 
bis  fellows  safely  in  hospital. 

Portable  houses  had  been  bought  in  large  numbers  by 
Lemercier  before  starting  upon  his  expedition;  they  should 
by  that  time  have  arrived  at  Las  Palmas,  if  the  contractors 
had  kept  their  words  about  shipment 

These  Chambret  was  to  see  stowed  aboard  the  Eirenel 


He  Acts  by  the  Code 

and  he  was  furthermore  to  enlist  a  force  of  workingmen,  as 
many  as  he  might  be  able  to  engage,  to  come  to  the  oasis  — 
masons,  builders,  carpenters,  plasterers,  and  others  of  kin- 
dred crafts. 

These  were,  primarily  of  course,  needed  for  the  building 
of  the  city  of  Troya;  later,  Monsieur  l'Empereur  hoped  he 
might  be  able  to  induce  them  to  stay  and  become  colonists. 

Since  early  dawn  the  men  had  been  busy  lightening  the 
yacht  of  its  stores;  it  was  slow  business,  for  the  vessel  could 
not  get  near  inshore,  and  all  transportation  had  to  .be  ac- 
complished by  means  of  boats  and  a  couple  of  portable  cata- 
maran rafts, 

It  was  eleven  in  the  evening,  or  later,  as  O'Rourke  sat  in 
his  tent  in  the  oasis,  having  one  final  talk  with  the  French- 
man, Chambret;  the  Elrene  was  to  sail  as  soon  as  the  last  of 
the  cargo  was  ashore,  but  her  captain  estimated  that  that 
would  not  be  until  two  in  the  morning  at  the  earliest. 

Chambret,  therefore,  had  plenty  of  time  at  his  disposal. 

"  And  Danny  ?  "  O'Rourke  was  asking  him,  for  the  French- 
man had  just  returned  from  the  vesseL 

"In  the  same  condition  —  comatose,"  replied  Ch&mbret; 
"but  his  temperature  is  lower;  I  don't  think  you  need  fear 
for  him.  If  he  holds  as  he  is  until  we  reach  Las  Palmas, 
he'll  pull  through  all  right." 

"Tis  the  delay  that  worries  rae,"  put  in  Q'Rourke.  "I 
had  to  consent  to  it,  ye  know;  I  couldn't  make  me  newly 
asserted  rule  too  dictatorial  to  start  with." 

"No,"  laughed  Chambret. 

He  rose  and  walked  to  the  front  of  the  tent,  drawing  back 
the  flap  and  looking  out;  and  the  Irishman  joined  him. 

"'Tis  a  thriving  settlement  we  have,  monsieur,"  he  sug- 
gested. 


Terence  O'Rourke,  Gentleman  Adventurer 

Near  at  hand  was  the  elaborate  marquee  of  Monsieur  1'Em- 
pereur,  glowing  with  light.  By  its  side  stood  another,  almost 
as  imposing  a  tent,  which  had  been  erected  for  the  use  of 
Madame  la  Princesse  alone.  Farther  removed  were  others 

—  tents  for  Monsieur  le  Prince,  for  Mouchon  and  D'Ervy 
(whom  O'Rourke  could  hit  upon  no  plausible  excuse  for 
banishing),  as  well  as  for  the  soldiery  and  the  servants. 

As  the  two  stood  watching,  a  corporal's  guard  of  soldiers 
marched  past  under  one  whom  O'Rourke  had  appointed  a 
petty  officer,  until  such  time  as  he  should  get  his  organization 
perfected. 

"Going  to  change  the  sentries,"  remarked  O'Rourke. 
"'Tis  near  midnight.  Faith,"  he  yawned  wearily,  "a  long 
day  it  has  been  for  me!" 

"You've  posted  a  guard,  then?" 

"All  around  the  edge  of  the  oasis.  I  don't  trust  monsieur, 
the  Tawarek,  any  farther  than  I  can  see  him.  From  as  much 
as  I  observed  of  Ibeni,  or  whatever  his  name  is,  he's  a  chap 
that  is  likely  to  keep  his  word;  but  we'll  take  care  to  hold  him 
at  his  distance,  anyway." 

"And  Monsieur  le  Prince?" 

"Oh  —  fudge! "cried  O'Rourke  good-humoredly.  "Does 
the  man  still  worry  ye  ?  Why,  monsieur,  he's  down  and  out 

—  a  wind  bag  perforated." 
"Don't  be  too  sure.    He  is — " 

As  Chambret  spoke  he  let  the  tent  flap  fall,  and  turned 
back  to  his  chair.  O'Rourke  remained  standing,  his  hands 
clasped  behind  him,  laughing  at  Chambret's  fears.  Abruptly 
ke  chopped  the  laugh  off  short. 

A  shot  rang  through  the  camp. 

O'Rourke  wheeled  about. 

"Tawareks  —  so  soon!"  he  cried. 


He  Acts  by  the  Code 

But  Chambret  suddenly  seized  him  by  the  arm,  pulling 
him  away  from  the  door  of  the  tent.  At  the  same  time  he 
stooped  over  and  extinguished  the  lamp  with  a  swift  twist  of 
the  wick. 

"  Not  so  fast ! "  he  cried.    "  Do  you  seek  death,  won  ami?  " 

"What  the  diwle—  ?"  demanded  O'Rourke. 

"That  was  no  Tawarek  shot,  monsieur.  It  was  a 
Mauser." 

Enlightenment  began  to  dawn  in  the  Irishman's  eyes. 

" D'ye  mean—  ?" 

"Monsieur  le  Prince?  Certainly  —  who  else?  Observe, 
monsieur!" 

He  indicated  two  dark  holes  in  the  white  wall  of  the  tent, 
seemingly  on  a  direct  line  with  the  position  of  O'Rourke's 
head  as  he  had  been  standing  when  the  shot  was  fired. 

"Assassination!"  gasped  the  Irishman. 

"Ah,  Monsieur  le  Prince  bears  a  grudge,  be  sure ! "  Cham- 
bret laughed  shortly.  "Had  you  stepped  forth  then  the 
assassin  would  have  shot  again.  You  can  thank  me  for  sav- 
ing your  life.  No  matter  —  I  shall  claim  it  some  day,"  he 
added. 

"Faith!"  said  O'Rourke  absently.  "I'll  try  to  give  ye  a 
run  for  your  money,  mon  ami."  He  paused,  thinking,  for  a 
moment.  "Come,"  he  said  sharply;  and  hurriedly  he  left 
the  tent. 

Without  there  was  confusion  and  a  running  to  arms. 
O'Rourke  desired  to  humor  this  for  the  present,  having  no 
mind  to  disclose  his  suspicions  as  to  the  man  who  had  fired 
the  shot.  Giving  orders  to  warn  the  pickets  to  redoubled 
vigilance  he  made  a  round  of  them  in  person,  accompanied 
by  Chambret;  and  finally  returned  to  the  guard  tent. 

A  Spahi  was  there  —  a  tall,  gangling,  bronzed  fellow,  who 


Terence  O'Rourke,  Gentleman  Adventurer 

had  known  the  -desert  since  childhood;  an  Algerian  of  Euro* 
pean  parentage.  O'Rourke  called  to  Mm. 

"Find  the  man  Soly,"  he  said  softly  in  the  Spahi's  ear, 
"  and  bring  him  to  me  at  once.  Don't  make  any  fuss  —  but 
shoot  him  like  a  dog  if  he  resists.  Also,  bring  me  his  arms." 

His  Spahi  saluted,  and  -walked  carelessly  away,  with  the 
air  of  one  on  no  pressing  -errand.  O'Rourke  watched  him 
out  of  sight,  into  the  shadows  of  the  palms,  with  an  approving 
nod.  "A  good  man,  that;  I'll  remember  him." 

He  returned  to  his  tent,  entered  and  relit  the  lamp.  Cham- 
bret  protested  against  this  heedless  courting  of  dagger,  but 
the  Irishman  remained  obdurate.  "No  more  trouble  to- 
night," lie  insisted. 

Within  ten  minutes  the  Spa'hi  had  returned,  Soly  in  his 
charge;  he  scratched  upon  the  canvas  wall,  and  upon  receiv- 
ing permission  entered.  His  prisoner  preceded  him,  with 
an  alacrity  that  might  have  been  .accounted  for  by  a  revolver, 
half  concealed,  in  the  Spahi's  hand. 

O'Rourke  placed  himself  behind  his  table;  his  own  revolver 
lay  upon  it,  and  he  fingered  it  nervously,  looking  Soly  over 
with  a  placid  brow.  But  when  he  spoke,  he  first  addressed 
the  Spahi. 

"Can  ye  keep  a  quiet  tongue  in  your  head,  me  man?"  he 
asked. 

The  Spahi  saluted.    "Yes,  mon  general" 

"See  that  you  do  —  lieutenant." 

The  Spahi  flushed  with  pleasure;  O'Rourke  silenced  his 
thanks  with  a  gesture. 

"Where  did  ye  find  this  man?"  he  asked  briskly. 

"In  his  tent,  monsieur." 

"What  was  he  doing?" 

"  Cleaning  a  rifle,  monsieur." 


He  Acts  by  the  Code 

"His  own?" 

"Nan,  monsieur  —  one  belonging  to  his  tentmate." 

"So!"  O'Rourke  paused;  his  eyes,  resting  upon  the  ex* 
member  of  the  " condemned  corps,"  grew  flintlike  —  hard 
and  cold.  "So,"  he  repeated  thoughtfully;  then,  sharply: 
"Ye  try  to  assassinate  me  with  your  comrade's  rifle,  do 
ye?" 

"Non?  monsieur  le  general — " 

The  words  died  on  Soly's  lips;  he  was  gazing  with  deep 
interest  into  the  muzzle  of  O'Rourke's  revolver. 

"Tell  the  truth,  ye  whelp,"  thundered  the  Irishman,  "or 
I'll  brain  ye  1  Now  —  ye  shot  at  me  just  now  ?  " 

Soly  hesitated. 

"Oui,"  he  admitted  at  last,  sullenly. 

"Good.    Why?" 

Soly  was  silent. 

"I  give  ye  two  minutes  to  tell  the  truth,  the  whole  truth, 
and  nothing  but  the  truth.  At  whose  instance  did  ye 
attempt  to>  assassinate  me  ?  " 

Soly  threw  back  his  head  defiantly;  but  the  muzzle  of  the 
revolver  still  held  his  attention.  It  was  inflexible.  More- 
over, the  watch  of  Chambret  lay  ticking  under  the  Irishman's 
eye. 

"One  minute!"  O'Rourke  announced.  Later:  "And  a 
half." 

"Monsieur  le  Prince,"  Soly  blurted  desperately.. 

"Ah!  Thank  ye.  Lieutenant,  take  this  man,  and  guard 
him  for  the  night." 

The  Spahi  saluted,  wheeled  about,  and  deftly  pinioned  the 
wrists  of  Soly..  They  left  O^ourke's  presence  in  the  closest 
intimacy. 

O'Rourke  put  his  elbows  upon  the  table,  and  bowed  his 


Terence  O'Rourke,  Gentleman  Adventurer 

head  in  his  hands,  thinking  deeply.  Thus  he  remained  for 
some  monotonous  minutes,  considering  the  case  of  Monsieur 
le  Prince.  At  length  he  stood  up. 

"He  must  leave  on  the  yacht  to-night,  Chambret,"  he  de- 
cided aloud. 

There  came  no  reply.  Chambret  was  gone.  O'Rourke 
looked  about  the  tent  stupidly.  "What  the  divvle — 1"  he 
muttered.  A  flash  of  comprehension  illuminated  his  intelli- 
gence. He  cursed  to  himself  softly,  caught  up  his  revolver 
and  sword  belt,  and  ran  out.  It  was  but  a  step  to  the  tent 
of  Monsieur  le  Prince.  He  had  reached  it  in  an  instant,  and 
was  scratching  on  the  canvas.  Receiving  no  reply  he  drew 
aside  the  flap,  and  peered  within,  to  discover  it  empty. 

O'Rourke  swore  again  irritably. 

"Diwle  take  the  hot-headed  Frenchman!"  he  cried. 
"For  why  does  he  want  to  treat  me  so?" 

He  dashed  up  the  line  of  tents  to  one  which  had  been  al- 
lotted to  Mouchon  and  D'Ervy;  he  had  a  very  distinct  notion 
as  to  what  Chambret  was  about,  and  it  pleased  him  not  at  alL 
Arriving,  he  did  not  stand  upon  ceremony,  but  burst  hi  upon 
a  scene  that  at  once  confirmed  his  fears. 

Three  men  were  in  the  tent:  Mouchon,  Chambret,  and 
Monsieur  le  Prince.  The  latter  was  standing,  facing  and 
addressing  Chambret.  Mouchon  had  backed  against  the 
wall  of  the  tent;  his  eyes  were  wide  with  fright. 

As  the  Irishman  entered,  Prince  Felix  said  a  word  or 
two,  low- toned  and  tense — worried  them  between  his  teeth, 
like  an  ill-dispositioned  cur,  and  flung  them  at  Chambret 
insultingly. 

Chambret  laughed  softly.  "Thank  you,  monsieur.  That 
precisely  is  what  I  sought." 

His  hand  moved  more  swiftly  than  thought;  the  slap  rang 

[i34] 


He  Acts  by  the  Code 

like  a  pistol  shot.  One  cheek  of  Monsieur  le  Prince  sud- 
denly paled,  then  flushed  scarlet  with  the  imprint  of  Cham- 
bret's  fingers.  He  gasped,  thrust  his  hand  swiftly  into  his 
breast  pocket,  and  sprang  for  Chambret's  throat,  flourishing 
a  blade  that  glittered  in  the  lamplight.  But  he  brought  up 
abruptly,  and  recovered  his  senses,  with  his  nose  to  the  muzzle 
of  O'Rourke's  revolver. 

Monsieur  le  Prince's  eyes  ranged  furiously  from  the  Irish- 
man to  his  own  compatriot.  He  put  up  the  knife  with  a 
swagger.  "Ah,"  said  he;  "a  conspiracy,  I  see,  messieurs." 

"Exactly,"  drawled  O'Rourke.  "Just  as  much  so  as 
yours  with  Soly." 

Prince  Felix  stepped  back,  with  a  little  cry  of  rage. 

"The  man  lies!"  he  gasped. 

"  Of  what  is  monsieur  accused,  that  he  should  defend  him- 
self?" inquired  O'Rourke  politely. 

Monsieur  le  Prince  was  caught.  He  darted  a  furious 
glance  at  O'Rourke,  biting  his  lip. 

"Well,"  he  said  doggedly,  "what  do  you  purpose  doing 
about  it?" 

"This  is  my  affair,"  interposed  Chambret.  "Monsieur 
has  insulted  me?  Will  you  fight  —  dog?" 

"A  duel?"  The  eyes  of  Monsieur  le  Prince  expressed 
unbounded  amazement. 

"Yes." 

"  Ah ! "  cried  the  prince.  "  You  afford  me  that  chance,  eh  ?  " 

"No,"  Chambret  coldly  negatived. 

"But,  as  the  challenged  party,  I  shall  choose  swords." 

"Very  well;  I  am  agreeable." 

O'Rourke  turned  to  the  terrified  Mouchon. 

"Ye  there!"  he  cried  sternly.  "Go  to  the  tent  of  your 
master,  and  fetch  his  case  of  rapiers." 


The  prince's  eyes  sought  Mouchon's;  they  exchanged  a 
glance  of  understanding,  which  O'Rourke  was  at  no  trouble 
to  interpret. 

"And,"  he  added,  as  Mouchon  prepared  to  leave  the  tent, 
"mind  ye,  monsieur,  if  ye  breatho  one  word  of  this  to  any 
soul  ere  I  give  ye  leave,  1*11  shoot  ye  on  sight i" 

Mouchon  bowed,  and  sidled  through  the  flap;  no  further 
communication  passed  between  him  and  his  master.  Indeed, 
so  potent  was  the  Irishman's  threat  that  the  little  Frenchman 
was  back  almost  before  they  considered  he  had  had  time  to 
accomplish  the  half  of  his  journey. 

Chambret  looked  at  his  watch.  "Twelve-thirty,"  he  an- 
nounced calmly.  "I  have  just  enough  leeway  to  attend  to 
Monsieur  le  Prince." 

"  Monsieur  Mouchon  will  no  doubt  be  glad  to  act  as  his 
second,"  said  the  Irishman;  "I,  of  course,  act  for  ye,  me 
friend.  To  avoid  a  possible  mistake,  however,  about  our 
place  of  meeting,  it  would  be  well  for  Monsieur  Mouchon  to 
accompany  ye,  Chambret;  I  will  give  Monsieur  le  Prince  the 
pleasure  of  me  own  company.  Now,  go,  gentlemen.  We 
will  follow  at  a  discreet  inftervaL" 

When  they  were  alone,  Monsieur  le  Prince  threw  himself 
into  a  chair  with  a  grim  laugh  —  indeed,  it  was  more  like  a 
snarl.  "It  is  already  decided,  this  duel,"  he  told  O'Rourke 
familiarly;  "your  principal  walks  in  a  dead  man's  shoes. 
Now,  had  it  been  you,  monsieur,  I  would  be  less  easy  in  my 
mind.  But  Chambret!  He  knows  naught  of  the  sword." 

"Do  ye  believe  it?"  queried  O'Rourfce  incredulously. 
"And  yet,  d'ye  know,  I've  a  premonition  that  ye  die  tonaight, 
monsieur." 


CHAPTER  XV 


A  FAINT  moon,  late  rising,  lighted  them  on  their  way  as 
they  left  the  borders  of  the  oasis  and  made  in  the  direction  of 
the  Eirene.  As  they  progressed,  it  rose  and  gained  in 
power.  By  the  time  they  had  arrived  at  the  agreed  place  of 
meeting  with  Chambret  and  Mouchon,  it  was  flooding  the 
desert  with  a  clear,  cold  radiance  that  served  for  the  purpose 
at  hand  as  well  as.  woaild  have  served  the  light  of  day  —  bet- 
ter, indeed,  since  now  there  was  no  suffocating  heat,  but  rather 
such  tingling  cold  as  rouses  a  man  to  activity. 

Such  preparations  as  they  made  were  simple;  Chambret 
and  Monsieur  le  Prince  removed  their  coats.  O'Rourke 
tested  the  foils,  and  allowed  Mouchon  the  choice.  A  level 
place  was  discovered,  some  twenty  yards  or  so  from  the  line 
of  travel  between  the  oasis  and,  the  yacht,  and  screened  by 
dunes  from  observation;  the  sand  was  not  so  soft  as  to  clog 
seriously  the  feet  of  the  combatants. 

They  took  their  places  —  Chambret,  cold,  pale,  and  silent; 
Monsieur  k  Prince,  blustering  and  confident.  O'Rourke 
stepped  aside. 

"Are  ye  ready,  messieurs?    Proceed!"  he  said. 

The  prince  brought  his  heels  together  and  the  hilt  of  his 
rapier  to  his  chin  in  a  superb  salute.  "  Au  revoir,  Monsieur 
Chambret,"  he  said  mockingly.  "I  shall  find  you  in  hell, 
when  my  time  comes." 

"Au  revoir"    responded    Chambret,    saluting   with   an 


Terence  O'Rourke,  Gentleman  Adventurer 

awkwardness  that  showed  his  lack  of  skill  with  the  weapon 
he  handled.  "On  the  contrary,  Monsieur  le  Prince,  when 
I  have  slain  you  I  intend  to  lead  a  virtuous  life.  There  is  no 
danger  of  our  meeting  in  the  hereafter." 

Monsieur  le  Prince  chuckled,  supremely  disdainful  of  the 
prowess  of  an  opponent  admittedly  an  absolute  ignoramus 
with  the  sword.  He  brought  himself  with  one  swift  move- 
ment to  the  guard. 

Their  blades  clashed  hi  the  moonlight,  glimmering,  sing- 
ing, glinting  fire. 

To  the  onlookers  it  appeared  that  Chambret  was  forcing 
the  attack.  He  seemed  to  throw  himself  almost  bodily  upon 
Monsieur  le  Prince,  as  a  desperate  man  might,  utterly  care- 
less of  the  outcome.  The  end  came  abruptly,  unexpectedly; 
Monsieur  le  Prince  fell.  Chambret  staggered  back,  two- 
thirds  of  his  blade  missing. 

Mouchon  flung  himself  forward  with  a  cry,  half  of  despair, 
half  of  terror,  falling  upon  his  knees  by  the  side  of  the  pros- 
trate man,  pawing  him  frantically,  muttering  to  himself,  call- 
ing the  man's  name  aloud.  Presently  he  looked  up,  a  queer 
expression  in  his  eyes,  his  hand  dabbled  with  blood  showing 
black  in  the  silvery  moonlight. 

"He  is  dead,  messieurs  —  quite  dead,"  he  stated  simply. 

The  word  seemed  to  rouse  Chambret  as  from  a  stupor;  he 
withdrew  his  hand  from  his  eyes,  and  with  a  gesture  of  finality 
cast  from  him  the  hilt  of  the  rapier  with  its  stump  of  broken 
blade. 

O'Rourke  wrung  his  hand,  congratulating. 

"  How  did  ye  manage  it  ?  "  he  demanded  joyously.  "  Faith, 
the  heart  of  me  was  in  me  mouth,  and  that  dry  with  fear  for 
ye!" 

"I  don't  know,"  said  Chambret  dully.  "I  was  assured 

[138] 


He  is  Astonished 

that  this  would  be  the  end,  from  the  first,  despite  my  inex- 
perience. I'm  told  that  a  novice  is  the  most  dangerous  of 
opponents,  as  a  rule." 

"  Faith,"  cried  the  Irishman,  "  I  owe  ye  a  debt  of  gratitude 
that  grows  like  a  rolling  snowball.  And,  mon  ami"  he 
added  thoughtfully,  "I'm  thinking  that  when  we  fight  'twill 
be  with  snowballs.  I  know  nothing  else  that  ye  cannot  best 
me  with." 

It  was  three  o'clock  in  the  morning  when  O'Rourke  re- 
turned to  the  oasis,  side  by  side  with  the  Frenchman,  Mou- 
chon.  At  the  door  of  the  latter's  tent  he  stopped  and  looked 
around. 

There  was  none  within  hearing  distance.  O'Rourke  lifted 
the  flap  of  the  tent  and  glanced  in;  on  a  cot  he  made  out  the 
dim  form  of  D'Ervy,  snoring  in  a  stupor  begotten  of  the 
champagne  he  had  swilled  with  Monsieur  PEmpereur  an 
hour  gone. 

"Mouchon,"  said  the  Irishman,  "one  moment.  If  ye  let 
slip  one  word  of  what  has  passed  this  night,  to  D'Ervy  or  to 
Monsieur  1'Empereur,  until  I  give  ye  permission  —  I  fancy 
I  need  not  warn  ye  what  will  happen.  As  for  Monsieur  le 
Prince,  he  decided  suddenly  last  night  to  return  to  Las  Palmas 
with  Chambret.  There  was  little  time  for  adieux.  We  ac- 
companied him  to  the  yacht.  That  is  all  ye  are  to  know." 

Mouchon  nodded  with  compressed  lips,  staring  at  him  with 
frightened  eyes;  he  was  very  much  in  awe  of  this  Irishman, 
whose  word  to  him  was  now  as  law. 

"Very  well,  monsieur,"  he  acceded  plaintively. 

The  Irishman  sought  his  cot;  he  lay  down  fully  dressed, 
too  weary  to  compose  himself  properly  for  his  slumbers. 
What  he  needed,  must  have,  was  rest  —  no  matter  how,  nor 


Terence  O'Rourke,  Gentleman  Adventurer 

when,  nor  where.  Sleep,  oblivion  —  he  desired  it  as  he 
hoped  for  salvation. 

But  it  appeared  that  he  could  not  sleep.  The  night  was 
old,  the  moon  in  her  glory;  a  pale,  intense  light  filtered 
down  through  the  overhanging  date  palms,  and  lit  up  the 
interior  of  the  tent,  sharply  defining  its  every  object  with 
black  shadow. 

O'Rourke  closed  his  eyes  obstinately.  It  seemed  as 
though  his  mental  vision  insisted  upon  repeating  with  mad- 
dening exactness  the  look  that  had  been  upon  the  face  of 
Monsieur  le  Prince  —  that  was :  who  was  Monsieur  le  Prince 
no  longer. 

They  had  buried  him  in  a  shallow  ditch  in  a  grave  dug  in 
the  sands  of  the  desert  by  Mouchon,  with  a  spade  which  the 
Irishman  had  succeeded  in  obtaining  from  the  yacht  without 
exciting  comment.  They  had  placed  him  on  his  side,  with 
his  face  to  the  sea,  looking  away  from  the  woman  whom  he 
had  wronged,  away  from  the  man  he  had  deluded  and  en- 
ticed into  this  futile  scheme  for  empire.  And  yet  the  Irish- 
man felt  that  he  himself  lay  under  the  gaze  of  those  dead  eyes, 
miles  distant  though  they  were. 

It  appeared  that  he  had  nerves;  the  eyes  haunted  him. 
He  cursed  the  habit  of  dueling,  cursed  himself  for  having 
permitted  the  fight  to  take  place,  for  being  an  accessory  be- 
fore a  fact  of  murder  —  justifiable  murder  in  the  eyes  of  men; 
but,  nevertheless,  plain  murder. 

And  yet  he  was  glad  —  that  he  might  not  honestly  deny; 
he  was  glad  that  Monsieur  le  Prince  was  gone  to  his  final 
accounting;  glad  that  it  was  not  by  his  hand;  glad  that  the 
affair  had  freed  from  bonds  that  were  worse  than  galling  the 
woman  upon  whom  O'Rourke's  every  thought  was  now  cen- 
tered; glad  that  he  was  now  free  to  think  of  her  without 


He  is  Astonished 

dishonoring  her  by  the  thought  of  loving  her  —  another 
man's  wife. 

He  tossed  upon  his  cot,  that  creaked  and  added  to  his 
sleeplessness.  He  imagined  something  pregnant  in  the  air 
—  something  foreboding  trouble  and  disaster.  He  could  not 
sleep.  Once  he  thought  a  cry  fell  upon  his  ears —  a  slender, 
wailing  moan;  and  he  rose,  and  went  to  the  door  to  look  out. 

But  then  the  tramping  of  feet  as  the  guards  made  their 
rounds  reassured  him,  and  again  he  lay  down. 

In  time  —  but  it  was  very  long  indeed  —  he  slept;  un- 
easily, it  is  true,  but  sleep  of  a  sort,  temporary  unconscious- 
ness that  robbed  him  of  his  carking  thoughts,  and  thus  proved 
grateful. 

And  yet  it  was  little  more  than  a  mockery  of  rest;  he  was 
permitted  no  more  than  a  brief  hour's  nap.  A  hand  shaking 
him  by  the  shoulder  roused  him. 

He  found  himself  sitting  up  on  the  edge  of  the  cot,  rubbing 
his  eyes,  striving  vainly  to  collect  wits  that  seemed  reluctant 
to  return  from  their  wool-gathering.  His  head  ached  with 
the  weariness  that  possessed  him,  and  he  felt  that  his  eyes 
were  sore  and  red-rimmed  —  though  that  might  be  partly 
due  to  gazing  over  the  desert  glare. 

His  shoulder  ached  from  the  grip  of  the  man  who  had 
wakened  him;  he  looked  up,  saw  that  it  was  a  Turco,  and 
grinned  drowsily.  "Me  soul,  Mahmud!"  he  muttered 
stupidly.  "Ye  have  the  diwle  of  a  strong  hand.  What  are 
ye  waking  me  for,  at  this  ungodly  hour,  can  ye  tell  me?"  he 
added  wrathfully,  beginning  to  come  to  his  senses. 

"Pardon,  mon  general,"  replied  the  man  respectfully. 
"We  judged  it  best  to  let  you  know  at  once." 

"What?"  He  was  on  his  feet  now,  staring  at  the  Turco 
with  clear  understanding  that  something  had  gone  desperately 

full 


Terence  O'Rourke,  Gentleman  Adventurer 

amiss  while  he  had  slept.  "What?  What's  wrong,  man? 
Speak  up!" 

Mahmud  had  hesitated,  fearful  of  his  general's  just  anger. 
Now  he  stiffened  himself  against  the  coming  storm. 

"There  has  been  evil  work  this  night,  mon  general"  he 
reported.  "Three  men  have  been  slain,  and  one  is  missing." 

"Three  skin?  One  gone?  Who?  Speak  out,  man; 
orl'll  —  " 

"Monsieur  recalls  that  a  Spahi  came  to  his  tent  with  the 
Frenchman,  Soly,  last  night  ?  That  Spahi  was  one  Abdullah ; 
he  is  dead  —  his  throat  has  been  slit.  Also  the  Frenchman 
is  gone.  Also  two  pickets,  Ali,  of  the  Turcos,  and  a  French- 
man, Rayet,  have  been  slain,  with  daggers,  on  their  posts." 

O'Rourke  was  buckling  on  his  sword  and  looking  to  the 
loading  of  his  revolver. 

"Which  posts?"  he  demanded  sternly. 

"Those  two  at  the  southernmost  end  of  this  oasis,  mon 
general — " 

"And  what  the  diwle,  can  ye  tell  me,  were  the  rest  of  ye 
doing  while  this  was  going  on?" 

The  storm  had  broken;  Mahmud  endured  in  piteous  si- 
lence; when  occasion  afforded  he  fled  as  from  the  wrath  of 
the  Judgment  Day. 

As  for  O'Rourke,  he  went  out,  and  calling  a  guard  of  sol- 
diers made  a  round  of  the  posts.  It  proved  true,  as  Mah- 
mud had  said;  not  only  was  the  Spahi,  Abdullah,  foully  mur- 
dered, but  also  the  two  outposts  on  that  edge  of  the  oasis 
which  was  most  distant  from  the  camp. 

And  Soly  gone !  Here  was  food  for  consideration.  Whither 
had  he  escaped?  Not  upon  the  yacht,  O'Rourke  was  cer- 
tain; for  he  himself  had  been  the  last  to  leave  that  vessel  be- 
fore she  had  sailed.  Moreover,  he  felt  assured  that  the  mur- 


He  is  Astonished 

der  of  Abdullah  would  have  been  discovered  quickly  had  it 
occurred  before  his  return  to  the  camp;  he  remembered  dis- 
tinctly having  seen  the  men  moving  about  Abdullah's  tent 
while  he  was  bidding  good-night  to  Mouchon. 

No;  it  had  taken  place  since  he  had  lain  down  to  sleep. 
He  recalled  with  a  start  that  cry  which  he  had  heard  while 
half  asleep,  and,  hearing,  had  attributed  to  his  imagination. 

So  —  where  was  Soly  ? 

Not  in  the  oasis,  for  that  had  been  beaten  thoroughly;  not 
a  hiding-place  therein  had  been  overlooked  —  not  a  hole 
large  enough  to  conceal  a  rabbit.  The  search  had  gone  on 
by  his  orders  while  he  was  making  the  rounds  of  the  pickets; 
he  was  satisfied  as  to  its  thoroughness. 

It  was  about  five  o'clock,  at  the  hour  of  the  windy  dusk 
that  foretells  dawn  upon  the  desert.  O'Rourke  lingered 
near  the  dead  body  of  one  of  the  unfortunate  sentries,  looking 
out  to  the  eastern  horizon  where  a  pale  and  opalescent  light 
was  growing  steadily. 

Was  Soly  out  there?  And  if  so,  where?  What  did  he 
purpose,  how  might  he  hope  to  exist,  without  food  er  water 
or  camels? 

His  eye  was  caught  by  the  flutter  of  a  white  thing,  far  out 
on  the  sands.  He  walked  slowly  out  to  see,  without  actually 
attaching  much  importance  to  the  matter.  It  was  idle 
curiosity  that  led  him — that  alone.  And  yet  when  he  at  last 
came  to  it  and  stopped,  it  was  with  an  exclamation  of  direst 
dismay. 

He  stooped  suddenly,  trembling  with  an  uncontrollable 
agitation,  and  put  forth  his  fingers.  They  closed  about  the 
white  object;  he  brought  it  close  to  his  eyes,  as  if  doubting 
much  its  reality;  for  surely  he  must  be  dreaming! 

It  was  a  handkerchief  —  a  mere  bit  of  sheer  linen,  for 

[  143  1 


Terence  O'Rourke,  Gentleman  Adventurer 

the  most  part  lacework  and  embroidery.  It  was  real;  he 
could  feel  and  see  it,  he  dared  no  longer  doubt  the  evidence 
of  his  senses,  and  yet  the  initial  in  the  comer  struck  terror  to 
his  heart. 

Suddenly,  he  found  himself  running  back  to  the  oasis, 
his  heart  in  his  throat.  He  dashed  past  his  escort,  thrust- 
ing them  from  his  path  with  frantic  strength;  and  they 
looked  first  at  his  face,  drawn  and  haggard  with  straining 
eyes  —  the  face  of  a  madman  —  and  then  to  one  another, 
shaking  their  heads  gravely. 

It  was  not  until  he  had  reached  the  door  of  Monsieur  1'Em- 
pereur's  tent  that  he  paused  —  not  then,  in  fact,  for  he  rushed 
on  in,  regardless  of  the  etiquette  that  hedges  about  the  sancti- 
fied persons  of  monarchs,  and  caught  the  sleeping  Lemercier 
roughly,  dragging  him  from  his  bed. 

"Monsieur,  he  commanded  rudely,  "get  up  and  dress 
yourself." 

"What  — what's  trouble,  O'Rourke?  Eh-yah!  Br-r-r, 
but  it's  cold." 

"Monsieur,"  cried  the  exasperated  O'Rourke,  "I  give  ye 
two  minutes  to  dress  yourself  and  to  go  to  the  tent  of 
Madame  la  Princesse,  to  see  if  she  is  there.  Ye  are  her 
brother,  and  alone  dare  enter." 

The  Lemercier  opened  his  eyes. 

"What?"  he  stammered. 

Briefly  —  curtly,  in  truth  —  O'Rourke  related  the  events 
of  the  morning  hours.  He  had  scarce  need  to  finish,  to  tell 
what  he  feared.  At  the  sight  of  the  handkerchief  and  upon 
his  telling  where  he  had  found  it,  le  petit  Lemercier  was  strug- 
gling into  his  clothes. 

Together  they  ran  to  the  marquee  of  madame.  Lemercier, 
standing  outside,  raised  his  voice  and  yelped  for  his  sister; 

[J44] 


He  is  Astonished 

then,  that  unavailing,  went  within  and  found  —  precisely 
what  they  had  feared. 

Madame  was  gone. 

Soly  was  gone. 

Whither? 

There  was  but  one  answer:  The  desert. 

Somewhere  out  there  in  the  fastnesses  of  that  great,  silent, 
sterile  waste,  whereon  the  sun  was  just  beginning  to  cast  a 
crimson  flush,  were  madame  and  her  abductor,  Soly. 

There  was  no  time  for  arguing  over  the  mystery  of  the 
affair,  for  trying  to  fit  a  reason  to  the  whys  and  wherefores 
of  the  former  sans  sauci's  mad  conduct.  The  conclusion  was 
irrefutable  that  he  had  kidnaped  madame,  for  some  occult 
reason  of  his  own. 

O'Rourke  did  not  stop  to  analyze  the  case.  Upon  le  petit 
Lemercier's  frightened  report  he  whirled  about  and  snatched 
a  Mauser  from  one  of  his  troopers.  Then,  calling  to  the 
others  to  follow,  he  made  off  at  the  top  of  his  speed  for  the 
spot  where  he  had  found  the  linen  handkerchief. 

Once  there  he  knelt,  and  scrutinized  the  ground  pains- 
takingly; and  it  seemed  to  him  that  he  could  discern  faint 
traces  of  the  footsteps  of  three  people.  But  why  three  ?  Had 
Soly  a  confederate  in  the  camp,  as  yet  undetected  ? 

He  rose  and  walked  on  as  rapidly  as  he  might  and  still 
maintain  his  scrutiny  of  the  trail.  Here  the  surface  was 
rather  hard  packed  than  merely  soft,  shifting  sands;  in  some 
places  the  wind  had  covered  the  traces  of  footsteps  thoroughly 
with  a  thin  film  of  sand;  but  still  he  would  come  upon  them 
a  little  farther  on,  trending  always  to  the  southward. 

And  he  pressed  ever  on,  the  troopers  at  his  heels  exchang- 
ing muttered  speculations  as  to  the  sanity  of  their  commander. 

Something  like  a  half  a  mile  to  the  south  of  the  oasis,  El 


Terence  O'Rourke,  Gentleman  Adventurer 

Kebr,  lay  the  dry  river  bed  called  the  Wadi  Saglat;  this 
O'Rourke  had  forgotten  completely;  the  rolling  face  of  the 
desert  had  deceived  him,  leading  him  to  the  very  brink  of  the 
gully  before  he  saw  it.  He  stumbled,  slipped  and  rolled  to 
the  bottom  —  some  twenty  feet  —  in  a  smother  of  sand  and 
pebbles. 

He  got  up,  shook  himself,  and  set  his  jaw  with  commingled 
determination  and  despair.  Here  it  was  absolutely  an  im- 
possibility to  trace  footprints. 

He  turned  half-heartedly  to  the  east,  towards  the  interior, 
and  passed  along  the  bed  of  the  gully  for  a  matter  of  about 
twenty  feet.  And  then  he  stopped  suddenly  —  brought  to  a 
halt  by  a  shot. 

A  puff  of  gas  ascended  above  a  rock  a  little  ways 
ahead,  and  he  saw  the  helmet  of  one  of  his  own  troopers 
dodge  down  behind  it.  Instantaneously  a  bullet  shaved  his 
cheek  closely,  and  buried  itself  deep  in  the  wall  of  the  gully. 

With  a  cry  of  relief,  O'Rourke  sprang  forward,  hope  high 
in  his  heart.  He  swung  around  the  corner  of  the  rock  and 
covered  with  the  Mauser  the  figure  of  Soly  —  Soly  recum- 
bent upon  one  elbow,  clutching  his  rifle  with  feeble  fingers, 
lying  in  a  welter  of  his  own  blood. 

The  man  looked  up  sullenly,  and  growled  faintly. 

"Go  on!"  he  said.  "Shoot  me;  I  haven't  long  to  live, 
anyway,  monsieur." 

O'Rourke  wrenched  the  Mauser  from  the  man's  grip  and 
knelt  beside  him;  the  rest  of  the  searching  party  came  up  and 
stood  about,  wondering  aloud. 

"Ye  are  right!"  exclaimed  the  Irishman,  rising  after  a 
diagnosis  of  the  fellow's  wound.  "Ye  have  about  an  hour 
to  live.  Ye  have  been  bleeding  for  some  time?" 

"About  two  hours,  monsieur."  The  man  shuddered. 

[146] 


He  is  Astonished 

"I'm  faint,  or  I  would  have  potted  you,  sure.  But  I  wasn't 
shooting  at  monsieur;  I  thought  you  were  that  damned 
Tawarek." 

"Who?    Speak  up,  man;  or  I'll  throttle  ye." 

"Will  you?  "said  the  fellow,  leering  hideously.  "And 
what  will  monsieur  be  learning  then  about  madame?  Let 
me  tell  the  story  my  own  way,  or  I'll  not  tell  it  at  all.  First 
—  brandy." 

A  Spahi  produced  a  flask  and  gave  it  to  the  wounded  man, 
who  drank  greedily,  with  great  gulps,  and  seemed  revived 
somewhat.  Life,  however,  was  but  flickering;  he  was  mor- 
tally injured,  with  three  gaping  bullet  holes  through  his  body. 

He  sighed  with  satisfaction:  "Ah-h!"  smacking  his  lips 
over  the  liquor,  and  began  to  talk  jeeringly,  vaingloriously : 
a  fearful  and  sickening  spectacle,  with  the  death  pallor  on 
his  face,  and  the  intense,  pitiless  sun  beating  full  upon  him. 

"Ah-h,  messieurs!  I  wish  that  Monsieur  le  Prince  were 
here  to  listen.  It  would  do  him  good  —  that  devil!  It  was 
such  a  pretty  scheme,  messieurs,  and  we  took  you  all  in  — 
only  it  miscarried  at  the  finish.  Listen.  Monsieur  le  Prince 
sent  for  me  in  Paris.  He  knew  me  of  old;  many's  the  dirty 
little  trick  I've  turned  for  him.  I'll  say  this  for  him,  though, 
he  always  paid  handsomely.  Well,  he  sent  for  me,  and  told 
me  he  wanted  me  to  enlist  with  you.  You  recall  that  he  gave 
me  a  letter  of  recommendation  to  you,  describing  me  as  an 
honorable  old  soldier  of  the  republic  ?  He  told  me  what  he 
wanted,  and  we  cooked  up  the  plot.  It  was  very  simple. . . . 

"Among  you  all  I  was  the  only  one,  monsieur,  who  under- 
stood Tamahak.  That  I  discovered  while  we  were  in  that 
pig-sty  of  a  prison  at  Las  Palmas.  It  was  first  planned  that  I 
should  escape  from  the  encampment  here  and  go  to  the  Ta- 
wareks  with  our  offer.  But  they  saved  us  the  trouble.  That 

t'47] 


Terence  O'Rourke,  Gentleman  Adventurer 

night  —  last  night  —  when  was  it?  —  that  Ibeni  came 
aboard  we  played  the  farce  to  perfection,  messieurs,  right 
under  your  very  noses.  I  was  interpreting  to  you  just  what 
you  wanted  to  hear,  and  you  were  gobbling  it  down  greedily. 
More  brandy!" 

He  got  it,  slobbering  over  the  flask  greedily,  leering  with- 
out shame  or  fear  of  a  just  God.  O'Rourke  was  patient 
perforce,  forbearing  to  press  the  wretch  for  fear  he  would  turn 
stubborn  and  refuse  to  talk;  the  fellow  knew  it,  and  taunted 
them  —  in  the  face  of  death. 

"Let's  see  —  where  was  I?  Oh,  the  Tawarek.  I  was 
telling  him  what  Monsieur  le  Prince  desired  of  him,  and  he 
was  setting  his  price,  bargaining  over  it  while  you  thought  he 
was  treating  for  peace.  Monsieur  le  Prince  wanted  your 
sou-centime  fool  of  an  emperor  kidnaped,  put  out  of  the 
way,  and  was  willing  to  pay  for  it.  As  things  stood,  Mon- 
sieur Lemercier  paid  for  it  himself.  Eh  —  a  good  joke, 
messieurs  ?  .  .  .  We  arranged  it  all  —  under  your  very  noses 
—  you,  so  wise  and  righteous!  When  Ibeni  left  it  was  all 
arranged  that  he  was  to  come  to  the  camp  on  the  following 
night,  and  that  I  was  to  meet  him  and  help  him  overpower 
Monsieur  PEmpereur.  Or,  if  not  that  night,  the  first  that 
the  simpleton  slept  ashore." 

He  paused,  drank  deep,  and  proceeded  with  some  diffi- 
culty., 

"Madame  spoiled  it  —  she  with  her  beauty.  Monsieur 
le  Prince  well-nigh  spoiled  it,  paying  me  to  shoot  at  your 
shadow.  How  I  missed  I  never  could  tell;  you  should  be 
dead  now,  Irish  pig  that  you  are!  But  I  missed,  and  you 
were  sharp  enough  to  catch  me ;  and  so  I  had  to  cut  the  throat 
of  your  Spahi,  What's-his-name.  A  difficult  job,  let  me  tell 
you,  to  do  noiselessly.  However —  I  did  it.  Me,  I  am 

[148] 


He  is  Astonished 

clever!  .  .  .  Then  I  went  out  to  meet  Monsieur  Ibeni.  He 
was  waiting  here  in  the  gully  with  three  camels:  one  for  Mon- 
sieur 1'Empereur,  one  for  himself,  one  for  me.  I  whistled 
the  signal,  low,  but  he  heard  and  came  and  helped  finish  your 
pickets. 

"But  then  there  was  trouble.  He  was  going  back  on  his 
bargain,  the  treacherous  dog!  He  had  seen  madame,  and 
preferred  to  abduct  her.  I  did  not  understand  until  he  made 
me,  with  the  revolver  which  you  so  kindly  gave  him,  Mon- 
sieur O'Rourke.  He  threatened,  and  —  I  gave  in,  and 
helped  him.  But  when  we  got  her  out  here  in  the  gully, 
messieurs,  and  madame  wept,  then  my  heart  turned,  and  I 
would  have  none  of  the  business.  I  am  a  fore-damned 
scoundrel,  beyond  doubt,  and  hell  will  be  my  portion.  But 
I  love  the  ladies,  the  pretty  dears!  Me,  I  am  a  Frenchman, 
and  gallant  where  the  sex  is  concerned.  ...  So  we  quarreled, 
the  Tawarek  and  I  —  and  he  did  this  to  me,  you  remark. 
However,  I  evened  up  matters  with  the  gentleman,  somewhat. 
I  shot  one  of  his  camels,  and  kept  him  away  from  the  other, 
so  that  he  had  to  go  away  finally  afoot,  with  madame  perched 
atop  the  other  beast  —  and  weeping.  I  tried  to  shoot  him, 
too,  but  he  kept  away.  The  other  camel  is  around  the  bend 
of  the  gully  up  there,  messieurs;  when  the  sun  came  up  I  had 
to  crawl  to  this  rock  for  shelter,  and  leave  the  brute. 

"I  trust  that  you  will  catch  Monsieur  Ibeni,  and  serve 
him  as  he  served  me.  Otherwise  ...  It  has  been  a  great 
farce,  has  it  not,  messieurs  ?  We  have  all  been  fooled  — 
myself  and  Monsieur  le  Prince  and  Monsieur  Lemercier  and 
madame.  All  —  except  the  Tawarek,  with  whom  God  at 
least  will  deal.  Ah-h-h!" 

Thus  blaspheming,  he  shuddered  and  died. 

By  rights,  wounded  as  he  was,  he  should  have  been  dead 

1*49] 


Terence  O'Rourke,  Gentleman  Adventurer 

before  they  found  him;  a  magnificent  hardihood  had  sus- 
tained him,  aided  by  a  desire  to  be  revenged  upon  the  Ta- 
warek,  and  to  laugh  at  those  whom  he  had  hoodwinked. 
They  buried  him  without  ceremony  beneath  a  pile  of  rocks 
—  as  fitting  a  grave,  possibly,  as  he  deserved. 

As  for  O'Rourke,  he  had  not  waited  for  the  end  of  the  nar- 
rative. The  man's  gestures  had  told  them  which  direction 
the  Tawarek  had  taken  with  his  captive;  to  the  east,  up  the 
gully  called  the  Wadi  Saglat.  Without  an  instant's  delay 
O'Rourke  rounded  the  farther  bend  in  the  gully's  walls,  and 
there  discovered  the  camel,  hobbled,  of  which  the  man  Soly 
had  spoken  —  a  magnificent  animal,  a  racing  dromedary, 
beyond  doubt  the  flower  of  the  Tawarek's  stable.  This 
O'Rourke  knew  from  former  experience  with  camels  in  the 
Soudan;  and  than  this  he  had  never  seen  a  finer  beast,  he 
told  himself. 

He  tightened  its  surcingle,  unhobbled  the  beast,  blessing 
it  and  keeping  out  of  the  way  of  its  curling  lips  and  sharp, 
white  teeth.  When  ready,  he  mounted,  and  gave  the  word 
to  proceed.  The  dun-colored  beast  arose  by  sections  — 
first  the  one  hind  quarter,  then  the  other,  then  the  fore  quar- 
ters with  one  sudden,  tremendous  lurch;  O'Rourke  shouted 
at  it  a  native  word  of  command.  It  started  forward  swiftly, 
long  neck  outstretched,  up  the  gully  of  the  Wadi  Saglat, 
bearing  the  Irishman  into  the  unknown  wilds  of  the  desert. 

O'Rourke  was  without  food  or  water,  without  protection 
from  the  sun;  he  had  nothing  to  depend  upon  but  this  camel, 
his  Mauser,  and  the  high,  bold  heart  of  him. 

But  that  was  light;  for  he  knew  that  he  was  going  to  rescue 
madame. 


CHAPTER  XVI 

HE  RACES  WITH  DEATH 

THE  desert  is  no  level  plain;  it  rolls  in  vast  steppes,  with 
long,  wavelike  undulations,  much  like  a  wind-swept  sea 
miraculously  petrified. 

Ibeni,  the  Tawarek,  unable  to  compete  with  the  range  of 
Soly's  Mauser,  at  length  gave  it  up;  dawn  approached  too 
nearly;  he  had  a  long  journey  to  make  up  the  Wadi  ere  he 
should  dare  to  show  himself  upon  the  surface  of  the  desert. 

Swearing  copiously  with  childish  rage  he  emptied  at  Soly 
the  last  cartridges  of  the  revolver  which  O'Rourke  had  pre- 
sented him;  and  had  the  vain  pleasure  of  seeing  the  bullets 
plow  up  the  sand  and  ricochet  from  the  sun-baked,  rocklike 
walls  of  the  gully. 

Soly  replied  with  a  shot  that  sent  up  a  spurt  of  dust  too 
near  the  feet  of  the  Tawarek  for  comfort;  he  took  up  his  long 
rifle  and  aimed  carefully  for  the  head  of  the  dun  racer;  at 
least,  if  he  might  not  have  it,  the  Frenchman  should  not. 

Again  his  shot  fell  short;  and  Soly  sent  a  bullet  whose  wind 
nipped  the  cheek  of  Ibeni. 

Seizing  the  swaying  lanyard  of  the  pack  camel  the  Ta- 
warek retreated  hastily  another  fifty  yards;  he  was  out  of  the 
range  there,  and  also  out  of  sight  of  the  Frenchman.  More- 
over, he  had  but  two  loads  for  his  rifle,  and  these  he  dared 
not  waste.  With  them  gone  he  would  be  at  the  mercy  of 
chance,  dependent  wholly  upon  his  long  knife. 

It  was  cruel  to  leave  his  precious  racer  there,  but  it  seemed 


Terence  O'Rourke,  Gentleman  Adventurer 

that  he  had  no  choice;  besides,  he  promised  himself  he 
would  return  at  the  head  of  his  warriors,  regain  the  dun 
racer,  and  wipe  the  invaders  off  the  face  of  the  desert. 

Madame  la  Princesse  was  on  the  back  of  the  pack  camel, 
securely  bound,  both  to  prevent  her  falling  and  to  render 
futile  any  attempt  at  escape  she  might  be  minded  to 
make. 

Ibeni  looked  up  at  her;  she  was  dry-eyed  now,  had  ceased 
her  lamentations,  sat  deep  sunken  in  despair;  she  moved  her 
head  painfully,  looking  ever  to  the  rear,  in  an  agony  of  hope 
of  rescue. 

She  was  very  fair  to  the  eyes  of  the  Ibeni;  and  his  eyes 
glistened.  After  all,  he  considered,  it  was  worth  the  sacri- 
fice of  a  dun  racer  to  win  such  a  beauty.  Indeed,  she  was 
worth  many  racers.  He  recalled  that  he  had  once  traded  six 
pack  animals,  such  as  madame  rode,  and  a  black  dromedary, 
for  a  girl  of  the  tribe  of  Oulad-Na'il,  who  had  run  away  with  a 
lover  as  soon  as  occasion  offered. 

And  she  had  been  as  nothing  —  as  the  stars  to  the  moon 
—  compared  with  this  fair  daughter  of  the  Franks. 

The  sun  was  mounting;  there  was  naught  for  it  but  the 
weary  journey  of  some  twenty  miles  over  the  blistering  desert 
to  Zamara,  the  next  oasis,  where  his  men  were  awaiting  him. 
Certainly,  it  was  no  great  hardship  for  him  to  walk  that  dis- 
tance —  he,  Ibeni,  who  had  walked  the  burning  sands  since 
he  could  toddle. 

Thus  he  contented  himself,  and,  with  his  hand  upon  the 
lanyard  of  the  pack  animal,  the  camel  obediently  stepped  out 
at  a  fair  pace,  Ibeni  pattering  swiftly  by  its  head. 

After  some  time  they  left  the  gully;  El  Kebr  was  out  of 
sight  by  then  —  only  the  waving  tips  of  her  hundred-foot 
palms  broke  the  sky  line  behind  them,  to  the  east. 


He  Races  with  Death 

The  sun  rose,  gathering  power,  and  glared  down  terribly 
upon  the  domain  over  which  it  held  sway,  undisputed  and 
indomitable.  The  hoofs  of  the  camel  raised  a  yellow  mist 
of  dust;  on  its  back  madame  swayed,  half-unconscious,  cut 
cruelly  by  the  ropes,  in  a  daze  of  suffering.  The  Tawarek 
drew  up  his  mask  until  nothing  remained  but  the  very  nar- 
rowest of  slits  to  see  through. 

Slowly  the  morning  wore  on;  the  pack  camel  trotted  spirit- 
lessly, its  master  plodding,  mute,  desperate.  The  heat  grew 
well-nigh  unbearable,  beating  down  fiercely  from  directly 
above.  The  desert  shimmered  in  a  saffron  sheen  of  torridity; 
the  sands  had  become  as  hot  to  the  touch  as  clinkers  fresh 
from  the  pit.  Overhead  the  sky  lowered,  white  hot  to  the 
eye,  infernally  dazzling. 

Thus  they  proceeded  for  hours  that  seemed  as  eons  to  the 
suffering  woman;  she  had  long  ceased  to  have  coherent 
thought.  She  had  abandoned  hope.  There  was  naught 
for  her  but  endurance  and  —  death  by  her  own  hand  so  soon 
as  she  might  be  able  to  make  an  opportunity. 

At  noon  the  camel  lifted  its  head  and  sniffed,  then  length- 
ened its  stride.  Ibeni  cried  out  hoarsely  with  his  parched 
and  dusty  lips  and  throat;  for  the  oasis  of  Zamara  could  not 
be  far,  now  that  the  camel  had  scented  the  water. 

Madame  heard,  but  without  care  or  comprehension. 
There  was  now  only  one  thing  that  could  rouse  her  from  her 
lethargy.  And  that  was  to  come. 

Zamara  was  still  afar  when  the  report  of  a  rifle  caused  the 
Tawarek  to  turn  his  head;  at  the  same  moment  a  spoonful 
of  sand  rose  from  the  face  of  the  desert,  on  the  off  side  of  the 
camel;  it  sailed  almost  a  yard  in  the  air.  feathered  and  dis- 
appeared. 

Ibeni  blasphemed  by  all  the  gods  in  the  Mohammedan 


Terence  O'Rourke,  Gentleman  Adventurer 

calendar;  he  reached  up  to  the  long  rifle  which  swung  at  the 
side  of  the  pack  camel. 

They  were  in  the  middle  of  a  saucer-like  depression  in  the 
desert.  Ahead  of  them  was  a  league-long  grade,  behind 
them  a  similar  one,  which  they  had  just  covered.  And  down 
this  latter  slope  was  coming  the  heat-distorted  shape  of  the 
dun  racer,  with  a  man  upon  his  back  —  grotesque  as  a 
chimera,  a  full  mile  behind,  yet  looming  so  huge  through 
the  haze  that  it  seemed  as  though  Ibeni  would  be  overtaken 
in  another  moment.  » 

He  loaded  the  rifle,  calling  to  the  camel  to  halt,  waiting 
patiently  for  the  pursuer  to  get  within  range.  He  was  not 
greatly  afraid;  for  behind,  hi  Zamara,  his  warriors  would 
soon  be  hearing  the  fusillade  and  sallying  out  to  his  rescue. 

The  pack  camel  sheered  off  to  one  side;  the  dun  racer  came 
on  steadily.  Ibeni  dropped  to  his  knee,  and  took  arm,  resting 
the  long  rifle  firmly  to  insure  accuracy.  Still  he  waited;  still 
the  dun  racer  neared,  growing  in  size,  a  huge,  splendid  target. 

A  minute  passed;  now  he  felt  that  he  might  not  miss.  He 
fired. 

Fruitlessly?  For  the  dun  racer  continued  to  approach 
relentlessly  at  top  speed.  He  heard  the  report  of  a  Mauser, 
and  a  scream;  a  quick  glance  aside  showed  him  that  the  pack 
camel  had  fallen  upon  its  knees,  and  was  threatening  to  roll 
upon  and  crush  the  woman  in  its  death  agony. 

That  was  the  last  thing  his  eyes  rested  upon  on  earth; 
O'Rourke  fired  again,  almost  at  random,  risking  everything, 
even  the  woman  he  loved,  in  the  necessity  of  saving  her  from 
what  was,  if  not  death  itself,  worse  than  death. 

The  Tawarek  shrieked  piercingly.  He  sprang  suddenly 
to  his  feet,  throwing  out  his  arms  to  the  brazen  sky,  as  though 
invoking  the  aid  of  Allah.  His  eyes  were  glassy;  blood 


He  Races  with  Death 

trickled  from  the  corners  of  his  mouth.  He  recognized  that 
he  was  done  for,  at  last.  With  one  final  supreme  effort  he 
reeled,  faced  about  and  fell  with  his  head  to  the  east,  toward 
Mecca. 

O'Rourke  did  not  stop;  the  dun  racer  passed  the  fallen 
Tawarek  with  giant,  league-consuming  strides,  and  as  it  did 
so,  to  make  all  things  sure,  the  Irishman  sent  another  bullet 
into  the  prone  body. 

Simultaneously  he  gave  the  cry  for  halt,  dropped  the  rifle 
and  leaped  from  the  back  of  the  racer,  while  yet  at  full  speed, 
landing  on  his  feet  by  the  head  of  the  wounded  camel. 

It  was  kneeling,  swaying  from  side  to  side,  its  long-lashed 
eyes  wide  with  pain,  fast  glazing.  O'Rourke  was  by  the 
saddle  in  one  spring;  he  drew  his  knife  and  cut  the  ropes  that 
bound  madame,  wrenched  her  from  the  back  of  the  pack 
animal  just  as  it  slumped  over  upon  its  side,  kicking  spas- 
modically in  its  death  struggle. 

For  a  moment  he  held  the  woman  he  loved  in  his  arms  — 
there,  with  nothing  above  them  but  the  wide,  blazing  sky, 
with  nothing  about  but  the  seething  sands,  with  none  to  ob- 
serve but  the  well-trained  dun  racer,  that  had  halted  a  few 
feet  distant. 

She  was  conscious;  by  a  magnificent  demand  upon  her 
courage  she  had  staved  off  the  faintness  which  was  clutching 
at  her  sentience. 

There  was  a  breathless  pause,  while  he  collected  his  facul- 
ties for  action;  hitherto  every  atom  of  him  had  seemed  con- 
centrated on  the  purpose  of  overtaking  madame ;  now  it  was 
with  an  effort  that  he  remembered  the  equal  necessity  of 
encompassing  a  return  to  El  Kebr. 

Perhaps  it  was  an  outside  influence  that  finally  brought 
him  to  active  knowledge  of  what  he  must  do.  Faint,  far- 


Terence  O'Rourke,  Gentleman  Adventurer 

sounding  shots  were  to  be  heard,  followed  by  a  chorus  of  yells 
—  Tawarek  yells,  from  the  warriors  of  the  dead  leader,  com- 
ing out  from  the  oasis  of  Zamara  to  the  rescue. 

Intuitively  the  Irishman  divined  their  source.  He  shud- 
dered with  despair.  They  had  but  one  camel. 

He  forced  himself  to  realize  that,  at  whatever  cost,  madame 
must  be  saved,  and  hastily  bearing  her  in  his  arms,  as  though 
she  had  been  a  feather,  to  the  dun-colored  dromedary,  bade 
the  animal  to  kneel,  and  placed  madame  upon  its  saddle, 
fastening  her  there  with  the  straps  provided  for  the  purpose. 

Their  plight  was  desperate;  the  woman  did  not  re- 
monstrate, recognizing  the  futility  of  argument  with  the  Irish- 
man, showing  her  appreciation  of  his  character  by  not  wasting 
time  with  useless  protestations.  She  knew  full  well  that  he 
was  going  to  risk  his  life  for  her,  and  that  he  would  do  it 
willy-nilly;  it  would  but  expose  him  to  a  greater  danger  to 
dispute  the  matter. 

But  in  her  eyes  he  read  his  reward. 

The  dun  racer  rose  at  the  command;  with  trembling  fingers 
O'Rourke  transferred  the  lanyard  from  its  headstall  to  the 
surcingle,  making  a  sort  of  loop,  which  fell  to  the  level  of  his 
elbow.  Beyond  the  rim  of  the  saucer-like  depression  the 
shouts  of  the  oncoming  Tawareks  were  now  perceptibly 
louder. 

Silently  the  man  handed  his  Mauser  to  the  woman;  as. 
silently  she  took  and  bound  it  to  the  saddle. 

The  Irishman  slipped  his  arm  through  the  loop,  and  or- 
dered the  animal  to  go  on. 

It  started  off  slowly,  unwilling  to  leave  the  nearer  oasis; 
O'Rourke  wasted  strength  in  urging  it  on.  Momentarily 
the  Tawareks  were  gaining;  soon  they  would  be  at  the  head 
of  the  rise.  He  shouted  furiously  at  the  beast.  Eventually 


He  Races  with  Death 

it  began  to  move  briskly,  gathered  impetus,  and  was  going 
at  racing  speed,  the  Irishman  running  by  its  side,  half 
pulled  along  by  the  loop  from  the  surcingle. 

In  the  beginning  he  managed  fairly  well.  But  the  long 
slope  to  the  rim  of  the  saucer  made  fearful  demands  upon  the 
reserve  of  air  that  he  held  in  his  great  chest.  He  reached 
the  rim,  crossed  it  half  fainting,  getting  his  breath  hardly. 

Beyond  it  was  not  so  bad;  there  was  a  grateful  down- 
ward grade,  along  which  he  sprang,  carried  partly  by  his  own 
momentum;  the  speed  of  the  dromedary  became  terrific. 
It  was  excited  by  the  commction  in  the  rear;  evidently  the 
Tawareks  had  come  upon  the  body  of  their  dead  leader, 
Ibeni.  Long,  wailing  howls  conquered  the  silence  itself, 
overpowering  as  that  was,  filling  the  void  between  heaven 
and  Dearth  with  nerve-racking,  long-drawn  wails  of  lamenta- 
tion and  grief  and  rage,  punctuated  with  ominous  rifle  shots. 

These  acted  upon  the  dun  racer  as  a  stimulant;,  it  lowered 
its  long,  scrawny  neck  until  it  seemed  that  its  head  almost 
touched  the  sands,  and  stretched  out  its  slim,  knobby  legs, 
rocking  from  right  to  left  like  a  ship  in  a  heavy  sea,  devouring 
fathoms  of  the  desert  at  a  stride. 

Its  motion  robbed  madame  of  strength;  she  shut  her  eyes, 
struggling  with  the  nausea  induced  upon  the  novice  by  camel 
riding.  Thus  she  could  not  see  O'Rourke;  it  was  as  well. 

Two  miles  they  covered,  ere  his  breath  began  to  give  out. 
The  hot  sands  burnt  through  the  soles  of  his  shoes,  the  sun 
above  seemed  to  strike  into  his  body  piercingly,  to  the  very 
core  of  the  man.  He  struggled  on:  better  to  die  thus  than 
to  become  a  goal  for  Tawarek  bullets.  His  arm  through  the 
loop  aided  him  wonderfully;  the  dun  racer  sped  fleetly,  as 
though  it  were  not  dragging  a  weary  load  of  man  in  addition 
to  the  burden  of  the  woman. 


Terence  O'Rourke,  Gentleman  Adventurer 

Somehow,  that  strange  thing  termed  the  second  wind  came 
to  O'Rourke,  at  a  time  when  he  felt  himself  in  his  last  ex- 
tremity, when  his  lungs  ached  and  burned,  when  his  legs  were 
moving  only  automatically  in  obedience  to  his  iron  will.  This 
happened  when  they  had  put  a  distance  of  something  like 
four  miles  between  them  and  the  scene  of  the  tragedy. 

He  revived  a  trifle;  his  head  that  had  been  hanging  erected 
itself,  he  stared  out  toward  El  Kebr  that  he  could  not  have 
seen  had  it  been  within  sight,  his  eyeballs  starting  from  their 
sockets.  For  a  brief  space  the  strain  grew  lighter. 

He  mended  his  stride,  hanging  less  like  a  dead  weight 
upon  the  loop;  for  a  little  while  it  swung  loosely  upon  his 
arm. 

After  them  came  the  chase,  marked  by  a  pillar  of  yellow 
dust  raised  by  the  flying  hoofs  of  the  camels;  it  seemed  that 
they  gained  —  the  pursuers  —  for  the  cloud  grew  nearer  and 
nearer,  larger  and  larger,  and  the  yells  sounded  more  loudly. 

But  of  these  the  fugitives  were  unaware;  they  had  neither 
thought  nor  desire  to  look  back.  It  was  nothing  to  them 
whether  the  chase  were  near  or  far;  there  was  naught  thought 
of,  Save  to  maintain  the  going,  no  matter  how. 

Again  the  Irishman's  head  sank ;  his  chin  fell  and  waggled 
loosely  upon  his  chest;  the  sun  was  claiming  him  for  its  prey. 
His  mouth  gaped  open,  his  tongue  protruded,  dry  as  a  bone, 
white-caked  with  the  sand  and  dust  that  flew  about  him  in 
minute  particles.  His  nostrils  were  distended  to  their  ut- 
most, straining  in  the  dry  and  superheated  air. 

He  lost  the  sense  of  motion  in  his  legs,  —  nearly  lost  con- 
sciousness. For  some  time  the  desert  had  been  rising  and 
falling;  now  it  reeled  dizzily  about  him,  swirling  like  a 
maelstrom  in  a  blood-red  flood.  His  heart  labored  mightily, 
beating  with  trip-hammer  blows  upon  the  walls  of  his  chest; 


He  Races  with  Death 

and  his  lungs  were  like  twin  crucibles  brimming  with  molten 
metal. 

An  inquisition  could  have  devised  no  torture  more  sublime; 
practically  the  man  was  already  dead;  only  that  something 
which  was  death-defying  in  his  make-up,  that  determination 
almost  superhuman,  held  him  upon  his  feet,  and  kept  those 
digging  into  the  sand  and  spurning  it  to  the  rear,  in  time  to 
the  rocking  of  the  dun  racer. 

Before  them,  after  many  ages  had  crashed  on  into  infinity, 
loomed  the  green  walls  of  El  Kebr.  Behind,  the  Tawareks 
nad  drawn  so  nigh  that  they  were  encouraged  to  take  pot- 
shots that  flew  wide  and  far  because  of  the  staggering  pace 
of  their  own  camels;  the  which  made  aiming  impossible,  a 
hit  a  miracle. 

But  of  all  this  neither  of  the  fugitives  comprehended  aught; 
the  woman  had  passed  into  a  merciful  unconsciousness  and 
had  slipped  forward  in  her  fastenings  upon  the  saddle  of  the 
dromedary,  jerking  back  and  forth  and  from  side  to  side, 
mechanically,  with  a  flaccid  and  puppet-like  motion  horribly 
suggestive  of  a  lifeless  thing. 

O'Rourke  plunged  still  on,  as  automatically,  knowing  noth- 
ing, more  than  anything  else  imaginable  resembling  a  dead 
man  mocking  the  action  of  the  living.  His  eyes  stood  wide 
open  and  seemed  to  glare  downwards  at  the  streaking  desert 
sands — that  were  not  sands  but  fire  solidified,  even  as  the  air 
was  not  atmosphere,  but  fire  pure  and  immaculate;  but  the 
staring  eyeballs  were  fixed  and  sightless,  spheres  of  exquisite 
pain  in  their  sockets,  caked  like  his  tongue  with  the  impalpable 
sand  drift  of  the  desert.  His  ears  were  filled  with  a  thunder- 
ing that  rolled  ever  louder  and  stronger  and  more  maddening. 
The  color  of  his  face  had  gone  from  ruddy  bronze  to  scarlet, 
from  scarlet  to  purple,  and  from  purple  had  merged  into  the 

[•*»] 


Terence  O'Rourke,  Gentleman  Adventurer 

dense  black  hue  of  congestion;  on  his  temples  the  great, 
swollen  veins  stood  out  like  black  cords,  distended  and  throb- 
bing almost  to  the  bursting  point;  and  presently  from  his 
nostrils  there  trickled  slowly  a  sluggish,  dark  hemorrhage. 
Yet  they  racked  on,  pursuers  and  pursued,  the  hunters  and 
the  hunted,  the  quick  and  the  dead  —  a  nightmare-like  vision 
of  a  dead  man  fleeing  with  his  beloved  from  a  ruthless  and 
vengeful  mob  of  fiends;  all  in  that  day  of  brass  and  fire. 

Alarmed  by  the  crackling  of  the  Tawarek  rifles,  the  im- 
perial guard  of  Leopold  le  Premier,  PEmpereur  du  Sahara, 
suddenly  emerged  in  force  and  checked  the  pursuit. 

But  when  they  picked  up  the  corpse-like  body  of  O'Rourke 
and  bore  him  back  into  the  cool  recesses  of  the  oasis,  they 
quite  failed  to  recognize  their  leader;  nor,  possibly,  would 
they  ever  have  done  so,  save  by  processes  of  deduction  — 
for  he  was  quite  unrecognizable  —  had  not  Madame  la 
Princesse  revived  sufficiently  to  breathe  to  her  brother  a 
fragmentary  account  of  the  manner  of  her  rescue. 


Fife] 


CHAPTER  XVII 

HE  HAS  WON  THE  RACE 

THROUGHOUT  the  afternoon  the  Tawareks  hung  about  El 
Kebr,  keeping  well  out  in  the  desert,  beyond  the  farthest 
range  of  the  invaders'  firearms.  They  circled  the  oasis, 
warily,  on  the  alert,  from  time  to  time  giving  tongue  to 
fierce  cries  —  signals,  apparently,  from  one  to  another. 

The  little  garrison  of  the  oasis  was  left  without  an  actual 
leader;  le  petit  Lemercier,  of  course,  was  nominally  the  head 
of  his  empire,  but  without  some  more  resolute  nature  to  fall 
back  upon  in  times  of  stress,  lacking  at  his  elbow  some  man 
of  decided  character,  whether  for  good  or  for  evil  —  such  as 
O'Rourke,  or  Chambret,  or  even  Monsieur  le  Prince  —  Leo- 
pold was  invertebrate,  vacillating,  fearful  alike  of  stepping 
forward  or  back. 

Mouchon  and  his  co-loiterer,  D'Ervy,  were  naturally 
neither  soldiers  nor  such  men  as  O'Rourke's  tried  troopers 
could  take  orders  from  and  retain  their  own  self-respect.  In 
such  case  the  conduct  of  the  soldiers  devolved  upon  their  own 
heads;  and  to  their  credit  be  it  said  that  they  behaved  as  true 
fighting  men  —  went  about  their  business  as  coolly  and  com- 
posedly as  though  O'Rourke  himself  were  directing  their 
movements. 

By  mutual  consent  they  selected  one  man  to  act  as  their 
captain  until  O'Rourke  should  recover.  This  fellow,  the 
Turco,  Mahmud  —  he  who  had  awakened  the  Irishman 
with  news  of  murder  —  had  served  for  years  on  the  Alge- 

[161] 


Terence  O'Rourke,  Gentleman  Adventurer 

rian  frontier,  part  of  the  time  with  the  camel  corps.  He 
was  cool-headed  and  clear-sighted  —  a  man  skilled  in  the 
ways  of  the  desert,  and  acquainted  with  Tawarek  methods 
of  warfare. 

Mahmud  ordered  affairs  precisely  as  though  he  had  been 
discharging  the  wishes  of  O'Rourke.  He  posted  the  pickets, 
charging  them  to  increased  vigilance  throughout  the  day  as 
well  as  during  the  night  —  though  that  were  scarcely  neces- 
sary, with  the  fate  of  their  comrades  ever  in  the  minds  of  the 
men. 

Drowsily  the  afternoon  wore  out  its  long,  hot  hours  — 
hours  punctuated  by  the  cries  of  the  far-swooping  natives, 
by  the  calls  of  the  pickets,  and  by  an  occasional  bitter  snap! 
as  a  Mauser  cracked  warning  to  some  too  ambitious  or  too 
daring  Tawarek. 

Madame  had  recovered;  after  a  short  interview  with  the 
nerveless  and  indifferent  emperor — who  stuck  to  his  tent  and 
to  his  champagne  that  was  cooled  by  lowering  the  bottles 
to  the  bottom  of  the  wells  —  Princess  Beatrix  had  the  un- 
conscious Irishman  conveyed  to  her  own  marquee,  where, 
with  tne  solitary  assistance  of  a  Spahi,  she  tended  O'Rourke 
faithfully,  doing  what  she  might  to  restore  his  life  to  the  man 
who  had  so  nearly  given  it  up  to  save  her  own. 

But  it  seemed  that  there  was  not  much  she  could  do;  and 
the  fear  that  what  she  contrived  for  his  comfort  was  all  too 
inadequate  struck  into  the  heart  of  madame  terribly  —  as 
nothing,  not  even  the  unhappiness  of  her  married  life,  not 
even  the  almost  maternal  love  she  bore  her  scapegrace 
brother,  had  ever  stirred  her. 

O'Rourke  lay  motionless  as  a  log,  scarce  breathing  for  a 
time;  he  had  passed  into  a  coma  of  utter  exhaustion.  The 
sluggish  blood  seemed  hardly  to  stir  in  his  arteries;  his  pulse 

[T63] 


He  has  Won  the  Race 

that  for  a  time  had  boomed  fiercely  now  crawled  haltingly— 
as  slow,  as  imperceptible  as  the  shifting  of  the  desert  sands. 
His  breath  was  so  casual,  his  respiration  so  slight  as  to  be 
almost  inaudible;  he  had  run  himself  dry,  and  not  an  atom 
of  moisture  stood  out  upon  his  fevered  body.  His  face  re- 
mained the  color  of  that  imperial  purple  which  Leopold  saw 
in  his  dreams. 

They  —  the  dainty  and  refined  princess,  and  the  swart, 
rough  soldier,  together  —  labored  over  the  Irishman  inces- 
santly, bathing  him  with  the  cool  water  from  the  wells,  forcing 
swallows  of  water  down  his  throat  —  his  throat  that  had  so 
swollen  that  he  had  almost  died  of  strangulation. 

But  still  his  temperature  continued  so  high  that  to  touch 
his  flesh  was  like  putting  a  finger  upon  a  heated  stove;  still  he 
breathed  so  faintly  as  merely  to  dim  the  mirror  which  the 
princess  held  to  his  lips;  still  his  blood  seemed  to  stagnate 
in  his  veins. 

In  the  end,  indeed,  it  was  to  the  Spahi  that  the  credit  for 
saving  him  must  be  given.  The  man,  inured  to  the  desert 
suns,  remembered  somewhat  of  the  proper  treatment  for  heat 
exhaustion,  according  to  desert  tradition.  He  left  madame 
suddenly,  without  a  word,  and  returned  with  Mahmud. 
Mahmud  eyed  the  Irishman  narrowly,  then  turned  and  went 
to  the  tent  of  Mouchon. 

He  stalked  in  without  ceremony.  Mouchon,  lying  listless 
upon  his  cot,  jumped  up,  angry  at  the  intrusion. 

"What  does  this  mean?"  he  demanded  furiously. 

"Monsieur,"  responded  the  Turco  roughly,  and  to  the 
point,  "indulges  in  opium.  I  have  seen  it." 

" You  lie—  " 

"Monsieur  le  General  lies  at  the  point  of  death.  Opium 
may  save  him.  Give  it  me,  monsieur." 


Terence  O'Rourke,  Gentleman  Adventurer 

"I  have  none — " 

"Monsieur!" 

Mahmud  caught  the  little  Frenchman  by  the  back  of  the 
neck  and  shook  him  as  a  terrier  does  a  rat, 

"The  opium!"  he  demanded,  releasing  Mouchon. 

A  third  appeal  was  not  necessary.  The  frightened  fellow 
produced  his  little  phial  of  white  tablets.  Mahmud  saluted 
ceremoniously  and  left,  returning  to  the  tent  of  the  princess. 

Respectfully  he  requested  her  to  withdraw,  and  to  allow 
him  and  the  Spahi  time  to  operate  on  O'Rourke.  She  re- 
fused calmly,  and  he  acquiesced  as  calmly  and  accepted  her 
assistance  in  the  dosing  of  O'Rourke  with  morphine  and  in 
something  that  was  a  worse  trial  to  the  nerves  of  the  delicate 
woman  —  blood  letting.  A  vein  was  opened  in  O'Rourke's 
arm;  it  saved  his  life. 

Evening  brought  with  it  a  breeze  —  the  cold  breeze  that 
springs  up,  unaccountably,  out  of  the  sands.  It  helped.  By 
nine  in  the  evening  O'Rourke  was  breathing  more  freely;  he 
was  perspiring  slightly;  his  temperature  was  lower,  his  face 
of  a  color  more  nearly  normal. 

At  midnight  the  woman  was  shivering  with  the  cold; 
O'Rourke,  at  whose  side  she  sat,  was  aflame  with  fever  — 
but  perspiring.  He  was  saved. 

Towards  morning  he  moved  for  the  first  time  since  he  had 
fallen  at  the  end  of  his  terrific  run;  he  stirred,  moaned,  shut 
his  mouth,  opened  his  eyes  —  they  were  staring  horribly  — 
and  began  to  babble. 

The  ripple  of  the  words,  born  of  his  febrile  hallucinations 
and  of  the  action  of  the  opium  upon  his  overstrained  brain, 
was  as  music  to  the  soul  of  madame.  For  a  little  while  she 
bowed  her  head  upon  her  arms  and  wept  for  happiness. 

[164] 


He  has  Won  the  Race 

As  for  the  Spahi,  he  rose  and  left  the  tent.  His  work  was 
done;  thereafter  madame  was  competent.  And,  moreover, 
with  instinctive  delicacy,  this  son  of  the  desert  did  not  wish 
to  be  present  when  O'Rourke  should  come  to  his  right  senses. 
He  was  not  of  a  strongly  intuitive  nature,  that  Spahi;  but  he 
could  hazard  a  shrewd  guess  how  matters  stood  with  the 
heart  of  Madame  la  Princesse. 

Presently,  however,  the  tears  of  madame  ceased.  She  be- 
gan to  listen  to  the  words  that  fluttered  between  the  clenched 
teeth  of  O'Rourke.  For  an  hour  she  harkened  —  breathless 
—  sometimes  with  her  hand  gripping  hard  above  her  heart 
as  if  to  still  its  tumult  in  her  bosom,  at  times  more  calmly, 
yet  always  with  a  great  joy  shining  in  her  eyes. 

Towards  dawn  there  came  a  lull;  the  Irishman  seemed 
again  deep  in  stupor.  But  this  was  not  a  dangerous  con- 
dition; it  has  become  more  rest  than  coma;  he  was  recu- 
perating. 

"I  dare  leave  him  for  a  moment,"  considered  Princess 
Beatrix. 

She  rose  slowly  and  went  to  the  door  of  the  tent,  looking 
over  her  shoulder  at  each  step,  reluctant  to  leave  him  even 
for  a  second.  And  yet  —  she  must  know.  And  the  man 
lay  quiescent  as  a  child,  breathing  evenly  as  an  infant  by  its 
mother's  side. 

She  drew  aside  the  flap  of  the  tent,  and  stepped  out. 

It  was  barely  the  verge  of  that  breathing  twilight  that  pre- 
cedes the  dawn.  The  oasis  was  silent  and  dark;  not  a  sound 
came  to  her  ears  to  indicate  that  a  soul  moved  within  its 
borders.  Only  in  her  brother's  tent  a  faint  light  glimmered, 
only  at  the  edge  of  the  date  grove  a  dim  palpitation  of  dusk 
seemed  to  be  trembling,  as  if  hesitant  to  intrude  upon  the 
immense  sanctity  of  the  night. 


She  paused,  looked  back  again,  listening,  then  hurriedly 
fled  to  the  marquee  of  Monsieur  1'Empereur.  By  the  door  a 
form  stepped  to  her  side  and  saluted  —  a  sentry. 

She  gasped  with  surprise  —  so  suddenly  had  he  come  upon 
her. 

"Who  are  you?"  she  demanded. 

"A  guard  for  Monsieur  1'Empereur,  madame." 

"By  whose  order?" 

"His  own." 

"And  there  was  no  sentry  ordered  for  me?"  she  asked 
bitterly. 

The  sentry  was  silent  for  a  moment;  then: 

"Monsieur  PEmpereur  gave  no  order,  madame.  Possibly 
he  knew  that  there  was  no  need  —  that  each  man  of  us  would 
lay  down  his  life  for  madame  —  or  for  Monsieur  le  General 
O'Rourke." 

"Possibly,"  she  responded  sharply,  aware  of  the  implied 
criticism  of  her  brother's  selfishness  that  had  been  in  her 
question  as  much  as  in  the  sentry's  reply.  "Awake  mon- 
sieur," she  commanded.  "Tell  him  I  must  speak  to  him. 
Then  —  go  to  the  tent  of  Monsieur  Mouchon  and  inform 
him  that  his  presence  is  desired  here." 

Two  minutes  later  Mouchon,  staggering,  rubbing  his  eyes, 
entered  the  marquee  of  le  petit  Lemercier.  He  was  at  once 
confronted  by  madame. 

Lemercier,  himself  blinking  with  sleep,  was  sitting  on  the 
edge  of  his  cot,  striving  to  appear  at  ease. 

"Monsieur,"  demanded  the  woman  in  a  tone  that  instantly 
wakened  both  of  the  drowsy  men,  "I  insist  upon  the  truth." 

"What  truth,  madame?"  asked  Mouchon,  opening  wide 
his  eyes. 

"The  truth,  monsieur!  I  warn  you  not  to  trifle  with  me! 

[166] 


He  has  Won  the  Race 

I  understand  that  you  accompanied  Monsieur  le  Prince "  — 
Mouchon  started  —  "to  the  Eirene,  last  night?" 

"That  is  so,  madame." 

"Who  accompanied  you?" 

"Monsieur  Chambret  and  the  Irish  adventurer — " 

"You  mean  Monsieur  O'Rourke?  Then  name  him  so. 
He  is  more  of  a  man  than  either  of  you,  messieurs,  who 
sneer  at  him — '  adventurer ' !  What  happened  ?  Tell  me ! " 
she  insisted  imperiously. 

"Nothing,  madame.  Monsieur  le  Prince  decided  to  go 
to  Las  Palmas — " 

"And  went  — where?    Come,  the  truth!" 

Mouchon  read  determination  in  her  attitude;  he  dared  not 
resist  her.  He  could  not  evade  the  answer,  and  yet .  .  . 

"Monsieur  O'Rourke  told  me  not  to  tell  on  peril  of  my 
life,"  he  murmured  abjectly. 

"Nevertheless,  you  had  best  tell  me  all.  What  hap- 
pened?" 

She  stamped  her  foot.  Le  petit  Lemercier,  suddenly  com- 
prehending the  drift  of  her  inquiries,  nodded  approvingly. 

"Speak  up,  Mouchon!"  he  encouraged  his  courtier. 

Mouchon  might  not  delay;  he  was  a  man  of  no  stability,  as 
has  been  indicated;  he  capitulated  gracefully.  In  a  few 
vivid  words  he  outlined  the  tragedy  that  had  made  madame 
a  widow  —  strong  words  they  were,  picturing  the  duel 
sharply,  for  the  soul  of  the  little  Frenchman,  or  what  served 
him  for  a  soul,  had  been  deeply  moved  by  the  horror  of  the 
thing. 

He  paused  at  the  end.  Lemercier,  on  his  feet,  staring 
blankly,  dazed  by  the  unexpectedness  of  the  news,  stupefied 
by  the  loss  of  the  man  who  had  been  his  constant  mentor  — 
Lemercier  seemed  to  see  the  body  on  the  sands,  with  Mou- 

[167] 


Terence  O'Rourke,  Gentleman  Adventurer 

chon  digging  a  narrow  trench  beside  it,  with  Chambret 
and  O'Rourke  conversing  amiably  aside  —  for  it  was  as 
hardened  murderers  that  Mouchon  had  imaged  them  in  his 
narrative. 

"The  assassins!"  cried  Lemercier,  first  to  find  his  tongue. 

But  madame  had  slipped  to  the  floor;  again  she  was  sob- 
bing, her  face  covered  with  her  hands  —  weeping  such  tears 
as  the  condemned  criminal  weeps  when  unexpectedly  par- 
doned. 

Mouchon  did  not  comprehend.  He  looked  from  madame, 
the  reality  of  whose  emotion  he  might  not  question,  to  Le- 
mercier. Mouchon  knew  that  there  had  been  little  affection 
between  madame  and  Prince  Felix;  and  he  fancied  that  the 
time  was  ripe  for  a  move  to  ingratiate  himself  into  the  place 
the  dead  blackguard  had  left  vacant  in  the  graces  of  Leopold. 
He  raised  his  eyebrows  and  shrugged  his  shoulders,  in  humor- 
ous deprecation  of  madame's  attitude. 

"This  is  truly  touching  — "  he  began. 

Then  le  petit  Lemercier  was  guilty  of  the  manliest  act  of 
his  life.  His  hand  fell  smartly  across  Mouchon's  mouth. 

"You  puppy!"  he  cried.    "Get  out!" 

Mouchon,  his  face  flaming  with  resentment,  hastily  left  the 
marquee.  Lemercier  sank  into  a  chair,  gazing  at  nothing, 
strangely  conscious  of  a  sensation  as  of  relief  —  as  though 
shackles  had  been  struck  from  his  wrists. 

There  followed  a  long  silence,  broken  only  at  first  by 
madame's  subdued  sigh — then  suddenly  shattered  by  the 
report  of  a  rifle. 

Another  followed  —  and  another  —  barking  Mausers  all; 
but  in  between  the  shots  there  rang  faint  echoes  from  afar. 

"The  Tawareks  —  attacking!"  cried  Lemercier,  his  face 
the  hue  of  ashes. 

[1681 


He  has  Won  the  Race 

Madame  was  already  beyofid  the  reach  of  his  voice,  hasten- 
ing toward  her  marquee.  Something  had  told  her  what  to 
fear. 

And  her  fears  were  justified.  The  marquee  was  empty; 
the  cot  whereon  O'Rourke  had  reposed  stood  unoccupied. 


[169] 


CHAPTER 

HE  FINDS  HIMSELF  IN  DEEP  WATERS 

HE  had  been  lying  motionless,  deep  down  in  the  silent 
depths  of  an  ocean  of  recuperative  unconsciousness;  complete 
inertia  had  been  numbing  his  every  faculty;  he  had  slept 
the  sleep  that  follows  a  prolonged  struggle  with  death  — 
slumbers  which  should  have  lasted  for  hours. 

Yet  to  him  the  crack  of  that  first  Mauser  had  been  like 
the  crack  of  a  whiplash  to  a  drowsy  horse.  The  second 
report  had  not  sounded  ere  he  was  on  his  feet  —  reeling,  it  is 
true,  but  nevertheless  standing.  Automatically  the  man's 
hand  went  across  his  eyes,  to  brush  away  the  cobwebs  of 
slumber.  Mechanically  he  looked  about  him,  but  saw 
nothing;  he  was  not  thinking:  a  single  idea  possessed  him  to 
the  exclusion  of  all  else.  His  exhausted  vitality  rallied  to 
his  support  in  the  work  he  had  to  do;  but  his  weary  brain 
had  strength  to  comprehend  but  one  thing.  He  did  not 
understand  that  he  was  in  Madame  la  Princesse's  marquee, 
so  he  did  not  wonder  at  the  manner  of  his  coming  there. 
He  did  not  know  that  he  was  too  weak  to  move  about  alone, 
so  he  did  not  hesitate  to  exert  himself. 

Simply  that  he  was  called  upon  to  help  repulse  an  attack 
by  the  Tawareks  —  that  was  his  whole  and  only  thought. 

It  naturally  followed  that  there  was  naught  to  be  done  but 
to  obey  the  duty  call;  and  he  responded,  if  mechanically. 

In  an  instant  he  was  outside  the  marquee,  staggering  to- 
ward the  nearest  edge  of  the  oasis.  Somewhere  he  blundered 


He  Finds  Himself  in  Deep  Waters 

into  the  figure  of  a  man  who  clapped  his  arms  about 
O'Rourke.  This  was  Mahmud,  but  O'Rourke  did  not  know 
it.  He  was  being  hindered  —  that  was  all.  And  he  threw 
the  Turco  from  him  as  though  he  had  been  a  mere  child. 

The  Turco  glimpsed  the  outlines  of  his  face  in  the  dark- 
ness, and  gasped  with  astonishment.  Again  he  caught  the 
Irishman  by  the  arm. 

"But,  my  general — !"  he  expostulated. 

He  was  brushed  aside  like  a  feather.  O'Rourke  took  a 
step  forward,  then  instinctively  understood  that  he  was  un- 
armed. He  returned  to  Mahmud. 

"Bring  me  a  gun,"  he  said  dully. 

"But,  my  general — " 

"Bring  me  a  gun!" 

His  tone  was  lifeless,  yet  charged  with  something  terribly 
menacing,  to  the  Turco's  imagination.  Mahmud  gasped 
and  trembled;  this  being  whom  he  had  thought  man  must 
be  either  god  or  devil; -otherwise  he  could  not  have  moved 
from  his  cot. 

Mahmud  called  upon  Allah.  O'Rourke  raised  his  hand 
slowly. 

"Bring  me  a  gun!  "he  reiterated,  in  the  same  dead  mono- 
tone. 

A  soldier  passed  on  the  run,  carrying  his  Mauser  at  the 
trail.  Mahmud  leaped  after  and  wrested  the  weapon  from 
him.  The  man  was  naturally  angry;  he  disputed  at  the  top 
of  his  voice. 

Mahmud  pointed  simply  at  the  waiting  figure  of  O'Rourke, 
whose  eyes  were  fixed  upon  them  with  a  stony,  threatening 
expression.  The  soldier  almost  collapsed. 

"AUahl"  he  cried. 

"Find  another  rifle,"  whispered  the  awed  Mahmud,  "and 


Terence  O'Rourke,  Gentleman  Adventurer 

follow  him.  He  is  more  than  man.  There  will  be  fighting 
now." 

Mahmud's  eyes  glittered  strangely;  he  scented  the  super- 
natural, and  divined  that  there  would  be  battle  and  blood- 
shed, indeed,  where  this  god  —  or  demon  unchained  — 
would  fight. 

He  left  the  gaping  soldier  and  stuck  close  to  the  heels  of 
O'Rourke.  Presently  he  broke  into  a  dog  trot,  the  better  to 
keep  up  with  his  general.  In  a  moment  an  idea  presented 
itself,  seeming  good  to  Mahmud.  It  would  be  well  to  pro- 
pitiate this  being.  "Here,  master,"  he  muttered  reverently, 
pressing  his  revolver  into  the  hand  of  the  Irishman. 

O'Rourke  accepted  without  a  word  and  hastened  on. 
They  were  nearing  the  edge  of  the  oasis.  In  front  of  them 
a  French  ex-artilleryman  lay  prone  upon  the  ground,  behind 
a  little  hill  of  sand  he  had  heaped  up  for  himself,  and  fired 
out  into  the  vibrating  dusk.  The  flashes  of  his  shots  were 
keen  crimson  and  gold  in  the  half  light. 

At  his  shoulder  O'Rourke  stopped,  peering  out  over  the 
face  of  the  desert  Afar  he  saw  a  tongue  of  flame  leap  out; 
the  report  followed,  with  the  whine  of  a  buUet  clipping  along 
very  near  to  them. 

O'Rourke  swung  the  Mauser  to  his  cheek  and  pulled  the 
trigger,  aiming  for  the  spot  where  the  flash  had  been.  Per- 
haps the  Tawarek  took  the  hint  and  moved  on;  but  for  some 
time  there  were  no  more  shots  from  behind  that  sandhill. 
O'Rourke  turned  to  the  ex-artilleryman. 

"Ye  are  overbold,  mon  ami"  he  said,  with  a  flicker  of 
smile.  "I  advise  that  ye  retreat  to  the  shelter  of  the  trees." 

The  Frenchman  recognized  the  leader,  swore  with  amaze- 
ment, and  obeyed  hastily.  Mahmud  followed  O'Rourke. 
Together  the  two  made  a  circuit  of  the  picket  line,  warning 

[172] 


He  Finds  Himself  in  Deep  Waters 

the  men  to  fall  back  and  screen  themselves  with  the  trunks  of 
date  palms.  In  every  case  the  trooper  obeyed  with  a  celer- 
ity that  was  heightened  by  his  supreme  surprise  that  a  man 
who  should  he  dead  by  rights  was  contrarily  walking,  talking 
and  commanding. 

Mahmud  once  ventured  an  explanation. 

"I  posted  these  men  out  here,  master,"  he  murmured 
deferentially,  "  that  they  might  the  better  watch  the  desert." 

"Ye  did  right,  under  the  circumstances;  but  now  the  situa- 
tion is  altered.  We  must  protect  every  man  —  we  shall  need 
them  all." 

"Truly,"  muttered  Mahmud  to  himself,  "this  is  prophecy! 
Truly  we  shall  see  great  fighting  before  nightfall." 

Inspired  or  not,  O'Rourke  was  speaking  simple  truth;  they 
were  to  need  every  man  ere  long.  Their  little  force  had  been 
sadly  decimated  of  late;  there  remained  in  and  about  the 
oasis  scarcely  thirty  fighting  men.  And  as  to  the  number  of 
Tawareks  —  who  could  tell  ?  They  might  easily  outnumber 
the  invaders  ten  to  one,  each  inspired  by  rabid  ferocity  and 
the  desire  to  avenge  the  death  of  the  leader  whom  O'Rourke 
had  slain. 

Why  they  had  held  off  so  long,  was  the  question.  To 
Mahmud's  mind  there  was  only  one  answer;  they  had  been 
awaiting  reinforcements  from  an  oasis  more  distant  than 
Zamara,  with  whose  aid  they  expected  to  exterminate  the 
French  party  to  the  last  man. 

Under  cover  of  the  night,  too,  they  had  improved  their 
position;  as  was  evidenced  by  the  nearer  line  of  fire,  they 
had  pushed  daringly  in  toward  the  oasis,  taking  up  sheltered 
posts  on  dunes  that  brought  them  within  easy  range  of  the 
invaders. 

In  event  of  a  combined  attack  from  any  one  quarter,  the 


Terence  O'Rourke,  Gentleman  Adventurer 

foreigners  were  doomed;  O'Rourke  dared  not  draw  off  a 
single  man  from  a  single  picket  to  help  repel  the  Tawareks. 
And  had  he  been  able  to  do  so,  as  he  justly  considered,  what 
were  thirty  men  against  three  hundred  or  more?  They 
would  be  mowed  down  like  grain  before  a  scythe,  were  they 
not  crushed  by  sheer  superior  force  of  numbers. 

Indeed,  he  recognized  the  situation  as  sufficiently  desperate 
to  call  for  heroic  measures;  what  such  measures  were  to  be 
he  could  not  determine. 

He  ordered  Mahmud,  peremptorily,  to  pick  out  the  tallest 
palm  tree  in  the  grove,  and  to  climb  it  to  the  top,  whence  he 
would  be  able  to  command  a  wide  view  of  the  surrounding 
desert;  the  better  to  survey  which  O'Rourke  told  the  man  to 
fetch  the  fieldglasses  from  his  tent. 

Mahmud  complied  with  all  haste;  while  he  was  away, 
O'Rourke  again  made  the  rounds  of  the  pickets,  finding  two 
dead. 

And  the  fire  of  the  Tawareks  was  being  kept  up  with 
fiendish  persistency.  Once  or  twice  he  fancied  that  they 
were  steadily  drawing  closer  in  upon  the  oasis,  undaunted 
by  the  equally  persistent  and  probably  more  effective  rifle 
practice  of  his  own  men. 

By  now,  the  brain  of  the  Irishman  was  clearing;  some  store 
of  reserve  force  within  the  man  had  been  tapped;  an  unsus- 
pected supply  of  nervous  energy  was  urging  him  on.  He 
stood  erect,  without  tremor;  he  thought  quickly  and  to  the 
point,  finding  no  difficulty  in  commanding  his  mental  powers; 
he  spoke  steadily  and  sharply,  issuing  his  orders  with  his 
accustomed  ilan. 

Small  wonder,  then,  that  Mahmud  reverenced  and  feared 
him  as  a  war  deity  —  whether  celestially  or  infernally  in- 
spired. Small  wonder  that  the  men  sprang  with  alacrity  to 


He  Finds  Himself  in  Deep  Waters 

execute  his  commands;  and  small  wonder  that  Madame  la 
Princesse,  when  at  last  she  found  him  standing  absorbed 
and  intent  by  the  side  of  a  sharpshooter,  forbore  to  interfere. 

She  could  not  understand,  but  she  knew  that  now  expostu- 
lation would  prove  as  vain  as  it  would  have  been  on  the  pre- 
vious day  when  he  had  prepared  to  start  upon  his  marvelous 
race. 

Almost  timidly  she  crept  to  his  side,  and  tentatively  she 
touched  his  sleeve;  and  abstracted  as  the  man  was,  he  knew 
the  featherweight  of  her  fingers  on  his  arm  and  found  time 
to  revel  in  the  thrill  of  it.  Nevertheless,  it  was  with  a  coun- 
tenance informed  with  concern  that  he  turned  to  greet  her. 
For  they  stood  directly  exposed  to  the  fire  of  the  Tawareks. 

"Madame!"  he  cried.  "Why,  this  is  madness  I  Ye 
should  be  —  back  there" — indicating  the  center  of  the  camp. 

"As  well  one  place  as  another,  monsieur,"  she  said,  as 
brightly  as  she  might.  "There  is  no  security  here.  Only 
a  moment  ago" — her  expression  saddened  —  "Monsieur 
d'Ervy  was  struck  down  in  his  tent  by  a  stray  bullet." 

"Struck?"    he    demanded.    "Where?    Killed?" 

She  nodded  affirmatively. 

Mahmud  approached  to  report,  saluting. 

"Well?"  inquired  O'Rourke  impatiently. 

"The  desert  is  alive  with  Tawareks,  master." 

"Yes,  yes;  I  knew  that.    Where  are  they  concentrating?** 

"To  the  north  and  the  east,  monsieur.  To  the  west  — 
along  the  way  to  the  coast  —  they  are  very  few." 

O'Rourke   nodded.     "So   I  thought.    Listen — " 

Madame  could  hear,  above  the  din  of  firing,  an  endless 
series  of  the  peculiar  wailing  calls  which  she  had  come  to 
know  so  well  as  essentially  characteristic  of  the  Tawareks. 

"They  have  been  signaling  to  one  another  for  half  an 


Terence  O'Rourke,  Gentleman  Adventurer 

hour,"  explained  O'Rourke.  "I  inferred  that  they  were 
massing  for  a  direct  attack  at  some  one  point.  It  is  to  come 
from  the  west  then,  d'ye  think,  Mahmud?" 

"Yes,  master." 

"Very  well;  we  will  disappoint  them  for  a  little  while, 
madame." 

"How?" 

"By  leaving  the  oasis." 

"But  that  is  certain  death." 

"Not  so  certain  as  though  we  concluded  to  stay  here  and 
die  like  rats  in  a  trap,  one  by  one  picked  off  by  their  fire  or 
crushed  out  by  an  overwhelming  charge.  No,  madame; 
their  object  is  to  force  us  to  the  coast, —  to  sweep  us  into  the 
sea.  And  we  had  best  precede  them.  Out  there,"  he  went 
on,  "  we  can  stand  them  off  better  than  here,  as  we  did  once 
before.  And  there  is  always  the  hope  that  the  Eirene  may 
have  returned." 

"At  least,  that  is  cur  only  hope,  monsieur,"  she  corrected, 
smiling  bravely. 

"Yes,  madame,"  he  conceded  with  gravity.  "Mahmud," 
—  his  tone  changed  to  one  of  command,  —  "concentrate 
all  the  men  at  a  point  opposite  the  way  to  the  sea  —  all,  that 
is,  except  a  dozen  or  less  who  shall  scatter  here,  on  the  east, 
and  keep  up  a  fire  till  the  last  moment,  for  appearances'  sake. 
Be  quick!" 

But  already  the  Turco  was  gone. 

"Madame,"  asserted  O'Rourke,  turning  to  the  woman, 
"ye  are  brave?" 

"I  do  not  fear  death,  monsieur." 

"And  —  and  ye  will  obey?" 

She  looked  steadfastly  and  deep  into  the  eyes  of  him. 

"In  all  things,  monsieur,"  she  said  softly,  "and  forever." 


He  Finds  Himself  in  Deep  Waters 

"Madame!"  He  was  dazed  by  her  manner;  he  could  not 
credit  the  evidence  of  his  senses  as  to  the  tenderness  of  her 
tone,  as  to  the  light  that  glowed  in  her  eyes. 

No;  he  told  himself  his  wish  had  been  father  to  his  thought. 
He  had  misunderstood.  He  looked  away. 

"Listen,"  he  said  rapidly;  "this  is  me  plan:  At  the  mouth 
of  the  Wadi  Saglat,  madame,  there  lies  beached  one  of  the 
catamaran  rafts  which  the  Eirene  left  behind  her  when  she 
sailed.  It  will  accommodate  six  at  the  most.  We  shall  make 
for  that,  if  we  gain  it,  ye  will  go  aboard  with  Monsieur  1'Em- 
pereur  and  Mouchon.  There  is  a  sail,  —  maybe  a  breeze." 

"But  as  for  you,  monsieur?"  she  demanded. 

"  I  remain  with  me  men  to  cover  your  retreat.  No — don't 
dispute.  'Tis  the  only  way." 

She  bowed  her  head,  apparently  yielding;  but  in  her  heart 
she  was  determined  implacably  that  she  would  not  desert  this 
man  who  offered  so  debonnairely  to  lay  down  his  life  for  her. 

O'Rourke  stepped  to  the  western  edge  of  the  oasis;  from 
the  indications  of  the  Tawarek  fire  he  made  little  doubt  but 
that  practically  all  of  the  enemy's  forces  were  massing  in  the 
east,  as  Mahmud  had  reported.  Already  his  own  men  were 
gathering  and  making  ready  for  the  dash  to  the  sea. 

The  adventurer  found  himself  worried  with  a  vague  un- 
easiness unconnected  with  the  desperate  situation  that 
menaced  his  comrades  and  the  woman  he  loved.  It  was  not 
that  he  was  himself  frightened,  or  that  he  feared  death :  death 
was  his  ultimate  portion,  a  soldier's  inevitable  fate;  he  was 
prepared  to  accept  it  uncomplainingly,  when  it  should  come. 
But  there  seemed  to  be  something  awry  with  the  day;  its  very 
atmosphere  hung  motionless,  lifeless,  indefinitely  depressing. 
It  struck  him  that  the  heat  seemed  more  sultry  even  than 
usual. 


Terence  O'Rourke,  Gentleman  Adventurer 

He  strove  to  shake  off  this  oppressive  influence;  for  a  little 
while  he  was  very  busy,  his  mind  distracted  with  the  business 
of  training  in  a  position  to  repel  the  expected  attack  the  two 
gatlings  with  which  the  expedition  was  provided.  But  when 
that  had  been  attended  to  he  became  again  conscious  of  the 
ominous  foreboding  in  the  air;  the  day  was  gravid  with  por- 
tents of  terror. 

Frowning,  he  stared  out  into  the  east.  For  a  moment  he 
saw  nothing  amiss;  the  desert  stretched  away,  as  always  a 
sea  of  sand,  desolate,  saffron  and  a-quiver  with  the  oblique 
rays  of  the  rising  sun.  Here  and  there  little  puff  balls  of 
smoke  would  rise  —  white  clouds  no  bigger  than  a  man's 
hand  —  tremble  and  dissipate;  their  appearance  followed 
at  an  interval  by  the  far,  spiteful  crack  of  a  native  rifle. 

Only,  he  felt  as  though  a  copper- colored  film  had  been 
bound  across  his  eyes;  he  saw  all  things  as  through  a  tinted 
glass,  yellow.  The  day  seemed  to  have  turned  darksome  at 
the  dawn.  And  the  silence  was  almost  terrible,  more  im- 
pressive than  ever  it  had  been,  with  a  sense  of  a  tangible 
presence,  mute,  invisible,  threatening.  In  its  profound  im- 
mensity, the  rattle  of  shots  was  like  the  shrill  piping  of  a 
child's  voice  in  the  roar  of  a  hurricane. 

But  he  had  no  time  for  conjecture.  Mahmud  returned 
to  his  side,  reporting  that  all  was  prepared  for  the  sally  out 
to  the  coast.  O'Rourke  nodded  sternly  in  his  preoccupation. 

"Rejoin  the  party  immediately,"  he  ordered.  "Place 
Madame  la  Princesse  and  Monsieur  1'Empereur  in  the  middle 
of  the  square.  Then  await  my  coming  with  these  others." 

To  the  south  and  north  the  firing  of  the  natives  had  dwin- 
dled out  and  died  completely.  Such,  too,  was  the  case  in 
the  west;  where  it  was  hardly  noticeable.  Only  in  the  east 
it  seemed  redoubled,  concentrated,  fiendishly  accurate.  On 


He  Finds  Himself  in  Deep  Waters 

the  borders  of  the  oasis  the  troopers  lay  at  length,  hugging 
the  stocks  of  their  Mausers  to  their  lean  cheeks,  firing  dog- 
gedly, waiting.  They  had  their  instructions  as  to  action  in 
the  apprehended  event,  and  were  impatient. 

Presently,  and  with  startling  abruptness,  the  fire  of  the 
Tawareks  ceased  entirely;  beyond  the  nearest  rises  of  the 
desert  a  dead  and  ominous  silence  reigned,  unbroken. 

The  jaundiced  light  of  day  became  more  intense,  seeming 
to  grow  imperceptibly  more  opaque.  In  the  east  a  white 
feather  of  cloud  hung  trembling  on  the  horizon. 

"Cease  firing!" 

At  O'Rourke's  command  the  troopers  obeyed.  "Re- 
load!" he  told  them,  and:  "Fall  back  to  the  guns!"  They 
did  so  in  silence,  casting  sullen  glances  over  their  shoulders 
at  the  vast,  vacant,  terrible  desert. 

O'Rourke  himself  reloaded  his  Mauser,  looking  to  his 
revolvers,  and  followed  them  to  the  gatlings. 

A  single  shot  rang  out  in  the  stillness,  with  the  effect  of  a. 
tocsin  heralding  a  massacre. 

In  another  instant  the  enemy  was  in  sight,  advancing  upon 
the  oasis  in  battle  array,  afoot  and  on  camelback,  at  a  quick 
trot,  their  white  burnooses  flapping  out  behind  them,  wing- 
like,  glistening  in  the  sun.  They  seemed  well-generaled; 
not  a  cry  rang  out,  not  a  man  paused  to  kneel  and  fire;  they 
came  on  steadily  and  silently,  implacably  determined,  as  if 
assured  of  their  absolute  irresistibility — a  gorgeous  array  in 
their  many-hued  garments,  with  the  sunlight  glinting  off  their 
arms  and  the  trappings  of  their  camels:  a  sight  to  strike 
terror  into  hearts  less  veteran  than  those  of  O'Rourke  and 
his  men. 

Turning,  the  Irishman  sent  his  voice  booming  across  the 
oasis,  to  the  other  party. 


Terence  O'Rourke,  Gentleman  Adventurer 

"Forward!"  he  cried. 

In  reply,  Mahmud's  echo  told  him  that  his  word  was 
heard. 

And  now  the  Tawareks  were  very  near,  coming  on  swiftly. 
They  were  not  dreaming  of  the  rapid-fire  guns,  which  as  yet 
had  not  been  made  use  of  for  lack  of  a  target  sufficiently 
important. 

O'Rourke  waited;  his  heart  hot  within  him,  determined  to 
even  somewhat  his  long  score  with  the  men  of  the  desert. 
He  waited  —  while  the  men  tugged  impatiently  at  his  leash. 
Then  — 

"Fire!" 

With  one  accord  the  gatlings  began  to  chatter  shrilly;  they 
had  been  accurately  trained  upon  the  advancing  host;  the 
pelting  rain  of  leaden  death  swept  along  their  line,  mowing 
it  down  mercilessly.  The  Tawareks  shrieked  rage  and  dis- 
may, calling  upon  Allah;  they  tried  to  return  the  fire  pro- 
miscuously from  their  rifles. 

And  the  gatlings  jabbered  on.  But  the  Tawareks  were 
in  overwhelming  force  and  invincible.  Their  enormous 
losses  were  disregarded;  the  huge,  terrible  swaths  in  their 
line  were  refilled  eagerly  by  others,  keen  for  death  and  the 
heavenly  houris  who  attend  upon  the  souls  of  those  of  the 
true  faith  who  fall  in  battle. 

When  they  were  too  near,  and  then  only,  O'Rourke  gave 
up  the  fight.  He  issued  the  order  to  abandon  the  gat- 
lings, which  were  simultaneously  effectually  dismantled;  the 
dozen  men  gathered  up  their  Mausers  and  swung  in  at  his 
heels. 

For  a  moment  or  two  there  had  been  firing  to  the  west. 
This  now  was  silenced.  O'Rourke  and  his  command  emerged 
from  the  shade  of  the  date  palms  to  see  the  last  man  of  the 

[180] 


He  Finds  Himself  in  Deep  Waters 

leading  party  slinking  over  the  top  of  a  sandhill,  his  rifle  at 
trail.  It  was  Mahmud,  who  turned,  waved  a  hand  and 
waited. 

A  short,  quick  dash  under  the  broiling  sun  brought 
O'Rourke  to  his  side. 

"Here  there  were  only  six  or  eight,  master,"  reported  Mah- 
mud. "We  put  to  flight  such  as  we  did  not  slay." 

"Good,"  breathed  O'Rourke.    "And  now  for  it!" 

He  tightened  his  belt  and  gave  the  command  for  the  double- 
quick;  the  forward  party  heard  and  mended  their  pace.  In 
the  rear  the  Tawareks  were  just  bursting  through  the  oasis, 
howling. 

Despite  the  fact  that  the  foreigners  had  the  start,  the 
Tawareks  gained.  Halfway  to  the  sea  O'Rourke  was  forced 
to  pause  and  deploy  his  men  to  the  right  and  left,  to  check 
the  advance ;  it  succeeded  momentarily,  but  as  he  stood  upon 
a  dune  top  and  surveyed  the  thin  fringe  of  prone  figures  that 
were  firing,  rising,  retreating  swiftly,  and  dropping  to  fire 
again,  his  heart  sank  within  him;  not  twenty  men  remained 
of  them  all. 

And  fully  two  miles  were  yet  to  be  put  behind  them  ere 
they  gained  the  sea. 

Very  soberly  they  fought  the  distance  out,  selling  each  yard 
dearly,  getting  their  pound  of  Tawarek  flesh  for  each  foot  of 
the  ground  they  yielded;  but  it  was  the  fighting  of  men  fore- 
damned,  viciously  determined  to  sell  their  lives  to  the  highest 
bidder  only. 

They  got  their  price  —  but  also  they  paid  it.  While  still 
a  mile  from  the  shore,  but  ten  men  remained  to  O'Rourke; 
and  as  he  counted  them  two  dropped  out  —  one  slain  out- 
right with  a  bullet  through  his  head,  another,  knowing  him- 
self mortally  wounded,  slipping  a  shoe  from  one  foot,  and 

[181] 


Terence  O'Rourke,  Gentleman  Adventurer 

with  his  toe  upon  the  trigger  of  his  rifle  forestalling  a  linger- 
ing death  by  Tawarek  torture. 

It  was  useless;  O'Rourke  glanced  behind  him,  to  the  coast. 
Madame,  Lemercier,  Mouchon  were  vanished.  They  might 
now  make  a  dash  for  the  sea,  he  considered,  and  his  voice 
rang  with  the  command. 

The  men  obeyed  hastily,  but  the  Tawareks  were  now  so 
near,  their  fire  so  deadly,  that  four  were  slain  as  they  rose  to 
join  their  commander;  and  now  another  went  down;  three 
only  closed  with  O'Rourke  for  the  run  to  the  sea. 

They  hugged  their  rifles  jealously,  setting  their  jaws  with 
fixed  determination  to  make  the  coast.  The  sun's  heat 
beat  upon  their  defenseless  heads  with  sardonic  intensity; 
below  their  feet  the  sands  broiled  and  reeled.  They  ran  on, 
staggering,  for  many  minutes  that  seemed  like  hours. 

Presently,  and  to  the  astonishment  of  all,  they  gained  the 
coast;  presently  they  stood  upon  the  highest  sandhill,  pausing 
to  look  back  ere  throwing  themselves  down  to  the  sea. 

O'Rourke  saw  the  little  catamaran  raft  lying  half  afloat; 
madame  sat  upon  it,  a  revolver  in  her  hand;  on  the  beach 
Lemercier  and  the  craven  Mouchon  sulked,  eying  the  woman 
doggedly. 

He  guessed  the  situation  —  that  the  two  had  tried  to  push 
off  and  leave  him  and  his  men  to  their  fate,  but  that  madame 
had  nullified  their  selfish  purpose  with  her  weapon  and  her 
©wn  dauntless  loyalty. 

But  there  was  no  space  for  consideration  of  that;  it  was 
enough  that  Lemercier  and  Mouchon  had  failed  in  their 
design.  Another  thing  interested  O'Rourke  far  more:  the 
Tawareks  had  given  up  the  pursuit. 

Why? 

His  three  remaining  troopers  had  flung  down  the  shelving 

[182] 


He  Finds  Himself  in  Deep  Waters 

hillside  to  the  beach,  but  O'Rourke  lingered,  shading  his 
eyes  and  gazing  inland. 

In  the  east  and  south  the  horizon  had  vanished.  To  the 
zenith  the  firmament  was  discolored,  shading  from  a  dense 
and  impenetrable  black  near  the  horizon  to  a  thin  and  trans- 
lucent copper  hue  overhead,  where  the  sun  hung  like  a  pallid 
disk ;  and  abruptly  that  was  blotted  out. 

Out  of  the  heart  of  the  desert  there  came  a  long,  shrill 
wail  of  fear  from  the  Tawareks;  and  close  upon  that 
sound  a  sighing  moan  swept  shuddering  through  all  the  world. 
A  puff  of  foul,  hot  wind,  like  the  breath  of  a  smelting  fur- 
nace, smote  the  cheek  of  the  Irishman;  it  was  as  if  he  had 
been  touched  by  flame. 

A  swirl  of  air  formed  afar  on  the  desert ;  and  another,  and 
another  —  brown  wraiths  of  dust,  whirling  like  mad  der- 
vishes, sweeping  seawards  with  the  speed  of  locomotives. 
Behind  them  loomed  what  seemed  a  wall  of  night,  solid, 
invincible,  annihilating  all  that  stood  in  its  path.  It  swept 
westwards,  wrapped  in  thunderings,  devouring  the  earth. 
El  Kebr,  that  oasis  which  was  sometime  the  site  of  Troya, 
the  Magnificent-to-be,  vanished,  was  blotted  out  as  by  the 
hand  of  God. 

The  sandstorm  advanced  with  incredible  rapidity; 
O'Rourke,  suddenly  conscious  that  he  was  delaying  escape, 
imperiling  the  lives  of  his  comrades,  by  thus  lingering,  with- 
drew his  fascinated  gaze  and  prepared  to  descend  to  the  wait- 
ing catamaran.  And  at  once  he  became  aware  that  he  stood 
not  alone;  a  man's  figure  loomed  beside  his  own.  He  stared, 
and,  despite  the  gathering  gloom,  discovered  the  features  of 
le  petit  Lemercier,  —  the  face  of  Leopold  le  Premier,  1'Em- 
pereur  du  Sahara. 

The  little  man  was  quivering  with  fright,  yet  shaken  with  a 


Terence  O'Rourke,  Gentleman  Adventurer 

more  overpowering  emotion.  Despair  was  furrowed  deep 
in  his  flabby,  pallid  cheeks;  and  tears  traced  tiny  rivulets 
through  the  dust  and  grime  with  which  his  countenance  was 
soiled.  He  stood  with  drooping  head,  his  arms  slack  at  his 
sides,  staring  with  lifeless  and  lack-luster  eyes  at  the  demoli- 
tion of  his  empire  of  illusion. 

Suddenly  he  fell  upon  his  knees,  stretching  forth  suppliant 
arms  towards  the  lost  oasis. 

O'Rourke  stooped  and  bent  an  ear  to  the  man's  lips.  He 
caught  the  echo  of  an  exceeding  bitter  cry: 

"My  empire!" 

And  the  heart  of  O'Rourke  was  moved  to  pity,  for  he  now 
knew  that  this  little  Frenchman  had  actually  believed  in  him- 
self and  his  mad  scheme. 

O'Rourke  caught  the  man  by  the  arm  and  lifted  him  to  his 
feet  without  ceremony.  And  yet  solemnly,  almost  sadly,  he 
said: 

"An  end  to  empire,  Monsieur  1'Empereur!" 

A  vedette  of  wind  from  the  storm  that  was  now  perilously 
near  struck  them  both,  hurling  them  from  the  head  of  the 
dune.  They  floundered  a  moment  on  the  beach,  then  man- 
aged to  creep  aboard  the  raft. 

A  soldier  shoved  them  off,  and  himself  clambered  aboard. 
A  shred  of  sail  was  set,  the  gale  caught  upon  it  and  the  cata- 
maran was  hurled  seawards. 

Immediately  O'Rourke  crumpled  into  unconsciousness; 
the  moment  the  strain  of  responsibility  was  lifted  from  his 
shoulders,  the  moment  they  were  in  the  care  of  Providence, 
the  Irishman  yielded  to  the  demands  of  an  overstrained  con- 
stitution. 

Hours  passed  blankly.  When  he  awakened,  it  was  to  find 

[184] 


Pie  Finds  Himself  in  Deep  Waters 

the  face  of  the  woman  that  he  loved  bending  over  him  — 
bent  maddeningly  near  to  his  own  countenance,  so  that  he 
might  feel  the  caress  of  her  breath  upon  his  cheek,  might 
catch  the  elusive  perfume  of  her  hair. 

"Where  are  we?"  he  asked. 

A  splash  of  saline  spray  wetted  his  face,  by  way  of  an  an- 
swer; he  turned  his  head  away  for  an  instant  and  glanced 
about  them :  the  catamaran  tossed  wildly  on  the  bosom  of  a 
wind-scourged  sea.  But  at  once  his  gaze  went  back  to  the 
woman.  After  a  while  she  bent  her  head  more  near,  smiling 
with  divine  tenderness,  and  kissed  him  upon  the  lips  —  there 
before  her  brother,  in  the  sight  of  Mouchon  and  the  three 
troopers. 

"The  Eirene  is  sighted,"  she  murmured.  "We  are  saved 
—  dear  heart." 

He  sighed,  resting  his  head  in  the  hollow  of  her  arm  —  her 
arm  that  had  served  as  its  pillow  for  weary  hours. 

"'Tis  a  dream,"  he  told  her.  "A  dream,  and  I'll  believe 
no  word  of  it,  sweetheart.  .  . .  But,  my  faith,  'tis  a  heavenly 
sweet  dream!" 


PART  SECOND 


The  Long  Trail 

CHAPTER  I 

THE  CAFE  DE  LA  PAIX 

AT  ten  in  the  evening  of  a  certain  day  in  the  early  spring 
the  stout  m'sieur  was  sitting  and  sedately  sipping  his 
bock,  at  a  sidewalk  table  on  the  Boulevard  Capucines  side 
of  the  Cafe  de  la  Paix. 

So  he  had  been  sitting  —  a  gentleman  of  medium  height, 
heavily  built,  with  active,  searching  eyes,  a  rounded  breadth 
of  forehead  and  a  closely  clipped  beard  of  the  Van  Dyck  per- 
suasion —  for  seven  consecutive  nights. 

At  one  minute  past  ten  of  the  clock,  the  stout  m'sieur  was 
on  his  feet,  showing  evidences  of  mental  excitement,  as  he 
peered  out  into  the  boulevard  parade,  apparently  endeavor- 
ing to  satisfy  himself  as  to  the  identity  of  a  certain  passing 
individual. 

And  Francois,  the  waiter  who  had  attended  the  stout 
m'sieur  for  a  full  week,  put  his  hand  discreetly  to  his  mouth, 
and  observed  to  Jean,  who  stood  near  by: 

"At  last,  m'sieur  has  discovered  his  friend!"  Adding,  to 
himself  alone:  "Now  I  shall  have  word  for  Monsieur  le 
Prince!" 

A  second  later,  the  stout  m'sieur's  voice  was  to  be  heard. 

"O'Rourke!"  he  cried,  and  again:  "  O'Rourke,  mon  ami!" 

Curious  glances  were  turned  upon  him,  not  only  by  the 
[187] 


Terence  O'Rourke  9  Gentleman  Adventurer 

moving  throng  upon  the  sidewalk,  but  also  by  the  other  pat- 
rons of  the  cafe*.  The  stout  m'sieur  heeded  them  not.  Rather, 
he  gesticulated  violently  with  his  cane,  and  called  again. 

To  his  infinite  satisfaction,  his  hail  carried  to  the  -ears  for 
Vv'hich  it  was  pitched.  Out  of  the  mob  a  man  came  shoul- 
dering his  way  and  looking  about  him  with  uncertainty.  A 
tall  man  he  was,  noticeable  for  a  length  of  limb  which  seemed 
great  yet  was  strictly  proportioned  to  the  remainder  of  his 
huge  bulk,  moving  with  the  unstudied  grace  that  appertains 
unto  great  strength  and  bodily  vigor. 

He  caught  sight  of  the  stout  m'sieur  and  a  broad,  glad  grin 
overspread  his  countenance  —  a  face  clean-shaven  and 
burned  darkly  by  tropic  suns,  with  a  nose  and  a  slightly 
lengthened  upper  lip  that  betokened  Celtic  parentage ;  a  face 
in  all  attractive,  broadly  modeled,  mobile,  and  made  luminous 
by  eyes  of  gray,  steadfast  yet  alert. 

"  Chambret,  be  all  that's  lucky ! "  he  cried  joyously.  "  Faith, 
'twas  no  more  than  the  minute  gone  that  I  was  wishing  1 
might  see  ye!" 

He  came  up  to  Chambret's  table,  and  the  two  shook  hands, 
gravely,  after  the  English  fashion,  eying  each  the  other  to  see 
what  changes  the  years  might  have  wrought  in  his  personal 
appearance. 

"I,  too,"  said  Chambret,  "was  wishing  that  I  might  see 
you.  My  friend,  I  give  you  my  word  that  I  have  waited  here, 
watching  for  one  O'Rourke  for  a  solid  wreek. 

"Is  it  so,  indeed?"  O'Rourke  sat  down,  favoring  the 
Frenchman  with  a  sharply  inquiring  glance.  "And  for  why 
did  ye  not  come  to  me  lodgings?  Such  as  they  are,"  he 
deprecated,  with  a  transient  thought  of  how  little  he  should 
care  to  have  another  intrude  upon  the  bare,  mean  room  he 
called  his  home. 


The  Cafe  de  la  Paix 

"Where  was  I  to  find  you,  man  ami?  I  knew  not,  and  so 
Baited  here." 

"A  sure  gamble,"  approved  O'Rourke,  looking  out  upon 
Jhe  evef-changing,  kaleidoscopic  pageant  upon  the  sidewalks, 
where,  it  seemed,  all  Paris  was  promenading  itself.  "If  one 
Bits  here  long  enough,"  explained  the  Irishman,  "sure  he'll 
Bee  ever>-  one  in  the  wide  world  that's  worth  the  seeing  —  as 
a  better  man  than  I  said  long  ago." 

"It  is  so,"  agreed  Chambret. 

He  summoned  3.  waiter  for  O'Rourke's  order;  and  that 
important  duty  attended  to,  turned  to  find  the  Irishman's 
eyes  fixed  upon  him  soberly,  the  while  he  caressed  his  clean, 
firm  chin. 

Chambret  returned  the  other's  regard,  with  interest;  smil- 
ingly they  considered  one  another.  Knowing  each  other 
well,  these  two  had  little  need  Scr  evasiveness  of  word  or  deed; 
(here  will  be  slight  constraint  between  men  who  have,  as  had 
Chambret  and  O'Rourke,  foughi  back  to  back,  shoulder  to 
shoulder,  and  —  for  the  matter  of  that  —  face  to  face. 

The  Frenchman  voiced  the  common  conclusion.  "Un- 
changed, I  see,"  said  he,  with  a  light  laugh. 

"Unchanged  —  even  as  yourself,  Chambret." 

"The  same  wild  Irishman?" 

"Faith,  yes!"  returned  O'Rourke.  He  continued  to 
smile,  but  there  was  in  his  tone  a  note  of  bitterness  —  an 
echo  of  his  thoughts,  which  were  darksome  enough. 

"The  same!"  he  told  himself.  "Ay— there's  truth  for  ye, 
O'Rourke!  —  the  same  wild  Irishman,  the  same  improvident 
ne'er-do-well,  good  for  naught  in  all  the  world  but  a  fight  — 
and  growing  rusty,  like  an  old  sword,  for  want  of  exercise!" 

"And  ye,  mon  ami?"  he  asked  aloud.  "How  wags  the 
world  with  ye?" 

[189] 


Terence  O'Rourke,  Gentleman  Adventurer 

"As  ever  —  indifferently  well.    I  am  fortunate  in  a  way." 

"Ye  may  well  say  that!" 

Was  there  envy  in  the  man's  tone,  or  discontent  ?  Cham- 
bret  remarked  the  undernote,  and  was  quick  to  divine  what 
had  evoked  it.  He  had  a  comprehending  eye  that  had  not 
been  slow  to  note  the  contrast  between  them.  For  it  was 
great:  Chambret,  the  sleek,  faultlessly  groomed  gentleman 
of  Paris,  contented  in  his  knowledge  of  an  assured  income 
from  the  rentes;  O'Rourke,  light  of  heart,  but  lean  from  a 
precarious  living,  at  ease  and  courteous,  but  shabby,  with  a 
threadbare  collar  to  his  carefully  brushed  coat,  and  a  roughly 
trimmed  fringe,  sawlike,  edging  his  spotless  cuff. 

"You  are  —  what  do  you  say?  —  hard  up?"  queried 
Chambret  bluntly. 

O'Rourke  caught  his  eye,  with  a  glimmer  of  humorous 
deprecation.  What  need  to  ask  ?  he  seemed  to  say.  Gravely 
he  inspected  the  end  of  the  commendable  panetela,  which 
he  was  enjoying  by  the  grace  of  Chambret;  and  he  puffed 
upon  it  furiously,  twinkling  upon  his  friend  through  a  pillar 
of  smoke. 

"'Tis  nothing  new,  at  all,  at  all,"  he  sighed. 

Chambret  frowned.  "How  long?"  he  demanded.  "Why 
have  you  not  called  upon  me,  man  ami,  if  you  were  in  need  ?" 

"Sure,  'twas  nothing  as  bad  as  that.  I  —  I  am  worrying 
along.  There'll  be  a  war  soon,  I'm  hoping,  and  then  the 
world  will  remember  O'Rourke." 

"Who  will  give  the  world  additional  cause  to  remember 
him,"  said  Chambret,  in  the  accents  of  firm  conviction.  "  But 
why?"  he  cried  abruptly,  changing  to  puzzled  protest.  "Mon 
ami,  you  are  an  incomprehensible.  If  you  would,  you  might 
be  living  the  life  of  ease,  husband  to  one  of  the  richest  and 
most  charming  women  in  France;  Beatrix,  Princesse — " 

[190] 


The  Cafe  de  la  Paix 

"Sssh!"  O'Rourke  warned  him. 

"Ah,  monsieur,  but  I  am  desolated  to  have  hurt  you!11 
said  Chambret  contritely;  for  he  had  at  once  recognized  the 
pain  that  sprang  to  new  life  in  the  Irishman's  eyes. 

"No  matter  at  all,  Chambret.  Sure,  'tis  always  with 
me."  O'Rourke  laughed,  but  hollowly.  "'Tis  not  in  the 
O'Rourke  to  be  forgetting  her  highness  —  nor  do  I  wish  to, 
to  be  frank  wid  ye.  Faith  ..."  He  forgot  to  finish  his 
thought  and  lapsed  into  a  dreamy  silence,  staring  into  the 
smoke  rings.  His  face  was  turned  away  for  the  moment, 
but  one  fancied  that  he  saw  again  the  eyes  of  Madame  la 
Princesse. 

"But  why,  then — "  persisted  Chambret. 

"Have  ye  not  stated  it,  yourself  —  the  reason  why  the 
thing's  impossible,  me  friend?  The  wealthiest  woman  in 
all  France,  since  the  death  of  that  poor  fool,  her  brother!  Is 
she  to  be  mating  with  a  penniless  Irish  adventurer,  a  —  a 
fortune-hunter  ?  Faith,  then,  'twill  not  be  with  the  O'Rourke 
that  she  does  it!" 

"But  I  thought — "  Chambret  persisted. 

"  That  I  loved  her  ?  Faith,  ye  were  right,  there,  old  friend ! 
'Tis  me  life  I'd  be  giving  for  her  sweet  sake,  any  time  at  all 
'tis  necessary  —  or  convenient."  He  chuckled  shortly,  then 
shook  his  head  with  decision.  "No  more,"  he  said:  "'tis 
over  and  done  with  —  me  dream  vanished.  Please  God, 
'tis  the  O'Rourke  here  who  will  be  going  back  to  her  some 
one  of  these  fine  mornings,  with  a  pocketful  of  money  and  a 
heart  that ...  If  she'll  wait  so  long,  which  I  misdoubt.  'Tis 
not  in  woman's  nature  to  live  loveless,  though  Heaven  for- 
fend  that  I  should  breathe  a  whisper  against  her  faith  and 
constancy!" 

He  glared  at  Chambret  wrathfully,  as  though  he  suspected 


Terence  O'Rourke,  Gentleman  Adventurer 

that  gentleman  of  having  subtly  aspersed  those  qualities  in 
the  woman  he  loved ;  then  softened.  "  Have  ye  news  of  her  ?  " 

"No  word,"  replied  Chambret.  "You  know  that  she  re- 
tired to  the  Principality  of  Grandlieu,  after  little  Leopold's 
death  ?  She  was  reported  to  have  left  for  a  tour  of  Europe, 
shortly  afterwards,  but  I  am  certain  that  she  did  not  come  to 
Paris.  Indeed,  it  is  uncertain  where  she  may  be." 

"She  is  her  own  mistress,"  said  O'Rourke  doggedly 
thoughtful. 

"She  is  adorable,  man  ami"  sighed  Chambret.  "I  have 
good  cause  to  remember  how  charming  she  is."  He  grim- 
aced and  tapped  O'Rourke  on  the  shoulder  nearest  him. 
"Eh,  monsieur?"  he  asked  meaningly. 

O'Rourke  smiled.  "  Faith ! "  he  declared.  "  I  had  almost 
forgotten  that  hole  ye  put  in  me,  when  we  settled  our  little 
differences,  ye  fire-eater!" 

"I  have  not  forgotten,  my  friend,"  returned  Chambret 
seriously.  "Nor  shall  I  ever  forget  your  gallantry.  To 
have  fired  in  the  air,  as  you  did,  after  having  been  wounded 
by  your  antagonist — !" 

"Hush!  Not  another  word  will  I  listen  to!  Would  ye 
have  me  shoot  down  a  man  I  love  as  a  brother?  What  d'ye 
tlink— ?" 

"Ah,  monsieur,  but  it  was  a  gallant  deed!  ...  I'll  say  no 
more,  if  you  insist,  mon  Colonel.  But  Madame  la  Princesse  ? 
You  have  heard  from  her  yourself?" 

"Not  a  line,"  said  O'Rourke  gloomily.  "Not  that  I  had 
any  right  to  expect  so  much,"  he  defended  his  beloved,  in- 
stantly. "But  'twas  in  our  agreement  that,  if  she  needed 
me,  she  was  to  send  for  me.  I  mind  ..." 

He  broke  off  abruptly  and  sat  staring  moodily  into  the  up- 
curling  spirals  of  cigar  smoke.  Chambret  forbore  to  dis- 

[192] 


The  Cafe  de  la  Paix 

turb  him.  Presently  O'Rourke  took  up  the  thread  of  his 
thoughts  aloud. 

"I  mind  the  night  I  left  ye  all,"  he  said.  "'Twas  while 
the  Eirene  still  lay  at  Marseilles,  —  the  day  afther  ye  had 
drilled  this  hole  in  me.  .  .  .  We  were  standing  in  the  bows, 
madame  and  I,  looking  at  the  moonlight  painting  a  path 
across  the  sea  to  Algiers.  .  .  .  Faith!  she  was  that  lovely  I 
clean  forgot  meself.  Before  I  knew  what  I  was  about,  I  had 
been  speaking  the  matter  of  ten  minutes,  and  she  knew  it 
all.  .  .  .  And  there  was  no  one  at  all  to  see,  so  she  was  in  me 
arms.  .  .  .  Faith!  I  dunno  why  I  am  telling  ye  all  this." 

"Continue,  my  friend.  If  you  had  told  her  of  your  love, 
why,  then,  did  you  go  —  as  I  remember  you  went  —  that 
very  night?" 

"'Twas  me  pride  —  not  alone  for  meself,  but  for  her! 
Who  was  I  to  be  making  love  to  the  sweetest  woman  in  the 
wide  world?  .  .  .  Anyway,  'twas  then  it  was  decided  upon, 
betwixt  herself  and  me." 

"What  was  — ?" 

"That  I  was  to  go  forth  and  seek  me  fortune  and  come 
back  to  claim  her  when  I  could  do  so  without  hurting  her  in 
the  eyes  of  the  world.  I  had  a  gold  sovereign  in  me  pocket, 
and  I  took  it  out  and  broke  it  with  me  two  hands  and  gave 
her  the  half  of  it.  ...  She  kissed  the  other  half  and  I  put  it 
away  to  remember  her  by.  .  . .  She  was  to  sind  it  me  when  she 
needed  me. . . .  And  then  I  was  making  so  bold  as  to  kiss  her 
hand,  but  she  would  not  let  me.  .  .  .  And  I  left  her  there  and 
dropped  down  over  the  side,  with  all  the  world  reeling  and 
no  thought  at  all  in  me  but  of  her  white,  sweet  face  in  the 
moonlight,  and  the  touch  of  her  lips  upon  me  own ! . . .  Two 
months  later  I  was  in  India,  seeking  me  fortune.  And  I'm 
still  doing  that." 


Terence  O'Rourke  y  Gentleman  Adventurer 

He  dismissed  the  subject  abruptly,  with  a  gesture  of  finality. 
"Ye  were  saying,"  he  asked,  "that  ye  had  been  seeking  me? 
For  why?  Can  the  O'Rourke  be  serving  a  friend  in  any 
way?" 

"You  are  unemployed?" 

"True  for  ye,  Chambret.    Ye  have  said  it." 

" Will  you  accept— " 

"Mon  ami,"  O'Rourke  stated  explicitly,  "I'll  do  anything 
—  anything  in  the  whole  world  that's  clean  and  honorable, 
saving  it's  handling  a  pen.  That  I  will  not  do  for  any  living 
man;  upon  me  worrd,  sor,  niver!" 

Chambret  chuckled  his  appreciation  of  this  declaration. 
"I  suspected  as  much,"  he  said.  "But — this  is  no  clerical 
work,  I  promise  you." 

"Then,  I'm  your  man.    Proceed." 

"Let  us  presume  a  hypothetical  case." 

O'Rourke  bent  forward,  the  better  to  lose  no  word  of  the 
Frenchman's. 

"  Be  all  means,"  he  encouraged  him. 

"But,"  Chambret  paused  to  stipulate,  "it  is  a  thing  under- 
stood between  us,  as  friends,  that  should  I  make  use  of  the 
actual  name  of  a  person  or  place,  it  will  be  considered  as 
purely  part  of  the  hypothesis?" 

"Most  assuredly!" 

"  Good,  monsieur.  I  proceed.  Let  us  suppose,  then,  that 
there  is,  within  one  thousand  miles  of  our  Paris,  a  grand 
duchy  called  Liitzelburg — " 

"The  name  sounds  familiar,"  interrupted  O'Rourke,  with 
suspicion. 

"Purely  a  supposititious  duchy,"  corrected  Chambret 
gravely. 

"Sure,  yes,"  —  as  solemnly. 


The  Cafe  de  la  Paix 

"That  being  understood,  let  us  imagine  that  the  late  Duke 
Henri,  of  Liitzelburg,  is  survived  by  a  widow,  the  dowager 
duchess,  and  a  son,  heir  to  the  ducal  throne  —  petit  Duke 
Jehan,  a  child  of  seven  years.  You  follow  me?  Also,  by 
his  younger  brother,  Prince  Georges  of  Liitzelburg,  a  —  a 
most  damnably  conscienceless  scoundrel!"  Chambret  ex- 
ploded, bringing  his  fist  down  upon  the  table  with  force  suffi- 
cient to  cause  the  glasses  to  dance. 

"Softly,  mon  ami!"  cautioned  O'Rourke.  "I  gather  ye 
are  not  be  way  of  liking  Monsieur  le  Prince?" 

"I  —  I  do  not  like  him,  as  you  say.  But,  to  get  on :  Liitzel- 
burg lies  —  you  know  where."  Abandoning  all  pretense  of 
imagining  the  duchy,  Chambret  waved  his  hand  definitely 
to  the  northwest.  O'Rourke  nodded  assent. 

"The  capital  city,  of  course,  centers  about  the  Castle  of 
Liitzelburg.  The  duchy  is  an  independent  State  maintain- 
ing its  own  army  —  one  regiment  —  its  customs  house,  send- 
ing its  representatives  to  the  Powers.  You  know  all  that? 
It  is  a  rich  little  State;  a  comfortable  berth  for  its  ruler.  Duke 
Henri  preserved  its  integrity,  added  to  its  resources,  leaving 
it  a  fat  legacy  to  his  little  son.  Had  he  died  without  issue, 
Georges  would  have  succeeded  to  the  ducal  throne  —  and  to 
the  control  of  the  treasury.  Naturally  the  scoundrel  covets 
what  is  not  his,  now.  He  goes  further.  He  has  gone  —  far, 
very  far,  mon  ami" 

O'Rourke  moved  his  chair  nearer,  becoming  interested. 
"Gone  far,  ye  say?  And  what  has  the  black-hearted  divvle 
been  up  to,  bad  cess  to  him?"  he  asked  with  a  chuckle. 

"He  has  kidnaped  little  Duke  Jehan,  mon  ami" 

"Kidnaped!"  The  Irishman  sat  back  gasping.  "Faith, 
what  does  he  think  he  is,  now  —  a  robber  baron?"  he  de- 
manded indignantly  —  this  man  of  strong  emotions,  easily 

[1953 


Terence  O'Rourke,  Gentleman  Adventurer 

inflamed  in  the  cause  of  a  friend.  "Tell  me  how  he  has  gone 
about  it,  and  what  ye  want  me  to  do." 

"There  is  but  little  to  tell,  O'Rourke.  This  is  the  most 
that  we  know  for  a  certainty:  that  Duke  Jehan  has  disap- 
peared. Georges  —  the  blackguard !  —  even  dares  offer 
a  reward  to  the  man  who  can  furnish  a  clew  to  the  child's 
whereabouts.  In  the  nature  of  things,  the  reward  will 
never  be  claimed  by  a  Liitzelburger;  for  Georges,  now, 
is  the  head  and  forefront  of  the  government,  holding,  prac- 
tically, power  of  life  and  death  over  every  soul  in  the 
duchy.  It  is  this  that  we  fear:  that  he  will  do  a  hurt  to  the 
child." 

"Why,"  interposed  O'Rourke,  "has  he  not  already  done 
it  —  put  him  out  of  his  way?" 

"  Because,  my  friend,  he  values  him  too  highly,  as  an  asset 
toward  his  purposes.  Prince  Georges  wishes  to  many 
Madame  la  Duchesse,  the  child's  mother — a  woman  wealthy 
in  her  own  right.  He  has  suggested  to  her  that,  should  she 
consent  to  marry  him,  his  own  interests  would  then  be  more 
involved,  that  he  would  perhaps  take  a  greater  interest  in  the 
pursuit  of  the  malefactors.  You  see?" 

"Faith,  and  I  do."  O'Rourke  tipped  back  in  his  chair, 
grinning  impartially  at  Chambret.  "And  he  would  marry 
the  duchess?  And  ye  hate  the  bold  blackguard,  is  it?"  he 
jeered  softly. 

Chambret  flushed  under  his  challenging  gaze.  He  hesi- 
tated. "To  be  plain,"  he  faltered,  "  to  be  frank  with  you, 
I  —  I  love  madame." 

"And  she?"  persisted  O'Rourke. 

Chambret  shrugged  his  shoulders.  "Who  can  say?"  he 
deprecated.  "Madame  will  not.  Yet  would  I  serve  her. 
Already  have  I  made  myself  so  obnoxious  to  the  powers  that 

[196] 


The  Cafe  de  la  Paix 

be  in  Liitzelburg  that  I  have  been  requested  to  absent  my- 
self from  the  duchy.  Wherefore  I  turn  to  you." 

But  O'Rourke  pursued  his  fancy.  "I've  heard  she  is 
beautiful?"  he  insinuated. 

Again  Chambret  hesitated;  but  the  e"yes  of  the  man  glowed 
warm  at  the  mental  picture  O'Rourke's  suggestion  conjured 
within  his  brain.  ''She  is  —  indeed  beautiful!"  he  declared 
at  length;  and  simultaneously  took  from  his  pocket  a  leather 
wallet,  which,  opening,  he  put  upon  the  table  between  them. 

O'Rourke  bent  over  it  curiously.  A  woman's  photograph 
stared  up  at  him:  the  portrait  of  a  most  wonderful  woman, 
looking  out  from  the  picture  fearlessly,  even  regally,  under 
level  brows;  a  woman  young,  full-lipped,  with  heavy-lidded 
eyes  that  were  dark  and  large,  brimming  with  the  wine  of  life. 
Which  is  Love. 

O'Rourke  had  seen  that  portrait  frequently  before,  as  pub- 
lished in  the  prints,  but  now  he  began  to  appreciate  this  great 
beauty  with  a  more  intimate  interest. 

"Faith!"  he  sighed,  looking  up.  "I'm  more  than  a  little 
minded  to  envy  ye,  Chambret.  She  is  beautiful,  me  word!" 
He  paused;  then,  "Ye  would  have  me  go  to  get  back  the  boy, 
if  I  can?"  he  asked. 

"That  is  what  little  I  ask,"  assented  Chambret.  "You 
will  be  amply  rewarded — " 

"I'll  go,  mon  ami.  Rest  easy,  there;  I'll  do  what  ye  would 
call  me  '  possible,'  monsieur,  and  a  little  more,  and  the  divvle 
of  a  lot  more  atop  of  that.  If  a  man  can  scale  the  insur- 
mountable —  I'll  be  himself  1" 

He  offered  his  hand,  and,  Chambret  accepting,  put  his 
five  fingers  around  the  Frenchman's  with  a  grip  that  made 
the  other  wince. 

"As  to  the  reward  — "  Chambret  ventured  again. 


Terence  O'Rourke,  Gentleman  Adventurer 

"Faith,  man,  can  I  do  naught  for  a  friend  without  having 
gold  showered  over  me ?  Damn  the  reward!  Tell  me  your 
plans,  give  me  the  lay  of  the  land,  and  I'm  off  be  sunrise. 
But  as  for  reward — " 

He  rose,  taking  Chambret's  arm  in  his. 

"Come,"  he  suggested,  "let  us  go  and  sup  —  at  your  ex~ 
pense.  And  then,  maybe,  I'll  be  asking  ye  for  the  loan  av  a 
franc  or  two  to  refurbish  me  wardrobe.  'Tis  the  divvle  av  a 
winter  it  has  been,  I'll  niver  deny.  Come.  'Tis  meself 
knows  a  quiet  place." 


CHAPTER  H 


IT  was  drawing  toward  the  evening  of  the  third  day  follow- 
ing, when  Colonel  O'Rourke  rounded  an  elbow  in  the  road 
and  came,  simultaneously,  into  view  of  the  Inn  of  the  Winged 
God,  and  to  a  stop. 

He  was  weary  and  footsore.  He  was,  moreover,  thirsty. 
Behind  him  the  road  stretched  long,  and  white,  and  hot,  and 
straight  as  any  string  across  the  Department  of  the  Meurthe- 
'  et-Moselle,  back  to  Longwy,  whence  he  had  come  afoot. 

For,  in  consideration  of  the  temper  of  Prince  Georges  de 
Liitzelburg,  Chambret  and  O'Rourke  had  agreed  that  it 
would  be  the  part  of  prudence  for  the  Irishman  to  enter  the 
duchy  as  unobtrusively  as  possible;  and  in  his  light  tweeds, 
with  the  dust  of  the  road  white  upon  his  shoes  and  like  a  film 
upon  his  clothes,  O'Rourke  might  well  have  passed  for  an 
English  milord  upon  a  walking  tour. 

To  the  seeing  eye,  perhaps,  there  was  about  the  Irishman  a 
devil-may-care  swing,  a  free  carelessness  in  the  way  he  put 
his  best  foot  forward,  a  fine  spirit  in  the  twirl  of  his  walking 
stick,  that  was  hardly  to  be  considered  characteristic  of  that 
solemn  person,  the  Englishman,  plugging  stolidly  forward 
upon  his  walking  tour  as  upon  a  penance  self-imposed.  But 
the  similitude  was  sufficient  to  impose  upon  the  peasantry  of 
Liitzelburg;  and  should  suffice,  barring  accidents. 

O'Rourke  paused,  I  say,  looking  forward  to  the  inn,  and 
then  about  him,  considering  the  lay  of  the  land.  To  the 


Terence  O'Rourke,  Gentleman  Adventurer 

north,  he  knew,  ran  the  French-Belgian  frontier  —  how  far 
away  he  might  not  exactly  state;  to  the  west,  also,  was  the 
line  that  divides  Liitzelburg  from  French  territory  —  again 
at  an  indeterminate  distance,  according  to  the  Irishman's 
knowledge. 

"But  it  will  not  be  far,  now,  I'm  thinking,"  he  said  aloud; 
"come  sundown,  'tis  meself  that  will  be  out  av  France  — 
and  thin,  I'm  advising  ye,  may  the  devil  stand  vigil  for  the 
soul  of  his  familiar,  Monsieur  le  Prince!" 

But  for  all  his  boastfulness,  the  Irishman  was  by  no  means 
easy  in  his  mind  as  to  how  he  was  to  accomplish  that  to 
which  he  had  set  his  hand.  The  plan  of  action  agreed  upon 
between  O'Rourke  and  his  friend  was  distinguished  by  a 
considerable  latitude  as  to  detail. 

O'Rourke  was,  in  short,  to  do  what  he  could.  If  he  suc- 
ceeded in  freeing  the  young  duke,  well  and  good.  If  not  — 
and  at  this  consideration  Chambret  had  elevated  expressive 
shoulders.  "One  does  one's  possible,"  he  had  deprecated; 
"one  can  do  no  more,  mon  ami" 

Now,  the  Irishman  was  thinking  that  it  behooved  him  to 
be  on  his  way  without  delay,  if  he  cared  to  reach  the  city  of 
Liitzelburg  before  nightfall.  And  yet,  this  inn  before  him 
was  one  of  possibilities  interesting  to  a  thirsty  man.  He 
stood  still,  jingling  in  his  pockets  the  scant  store  of  francs 
that  remained  to  him  of  the  modest  loan  which  he  had 
consented  to  accept  of  the  larger  sum  which  Chambret  had 
tried  to  press  upon  him. 

It  stood  unobtrusively  back  from  the  road,  this  inn:  a 
gabled  building,  weather-beaten  and  ancient-seeming,  draped 
lavishly  with  green  growing  vines.  Above  the  lintel  of  its 
wide,  hospitably  yawning  doorway  swung,  creaking  in  the 
perfumed  airs  of  the  spring  afternoon,  a  battered  signboard, 

[aooj 


The  Inn  of  the  Winged  God 

whereon  a  long-dead  artist  had  limned  the  figure  of  a  little 
laughing,  naked  boy,  with  a  bow  and  a  quiver  full  of  arrows, 
and  two  downy  wings  sprouting  somewhere  near  his  chubby 
shoulder-blades. 

O'Rourke  grinned  at  the  childish  god,  deciphering  the 
stilted  French  inscription  beneath  its  feet. 

"The  Inn  of  the  Winged  God,"  he  read  aloud.  "Sure, 
'tis  meself  that's  the  superstitious  one  —  a  rank  believer  in 
signs.  I'm  taking  ye,  ye  shameless  urchin,"  he  apostrophized 
the  god  of  love,  "for  a  sign  that  there's  —  drink  within!" 
He  chuckled,  thinking :  "  'Tis  here  that  I'm  to  meet  Chambret, 
if  need  be,  for  consultation.  I  mind  me  he  said  the  inn  was 
but  a  step  this  side  the  frontier.  Be  that  token,  'tis  him- 
self that  should  be  coming  down  the  road,  ere  long,  galumph- 
ing in  that  red  devil- wagon  av  his." 

But  the  question  remained:  Was  he  to  pause  for  refresh- 
ment, or  to  push  on  despite  his  great  thirst  ?  For  it  seemed 
as  though  all  the  dust  in  the  road  that  had  not  found  lodg- 
ment upon  his  body  had  settled  in  his  throat. 

The  fluttering  of  a  woman's  skirts  put  a  period  to  his  hesi- 
tancy; a  girl  appeared  and  stood  for  a  moment  in  the  doorway 
of  the  Inn  of  the  Winged  God,  gazing  upon  the  newcomer 
with  steady  eyes  that  were  bright  beneath  level  brows.  A  tall 
girl,  seemingly  the  taller  since  slight  and  supple,  she  was,  and 
astonishingly  good  to  look  upon:  slender  and  darkly  beautiful. 

Even  at  a  distance  O'Rourke  could  see  as  much  and 
imagine  the  rest;  and,  more,  he  saw  that  she  wore  the  peasant 
dress  peculiar  to  that  Department  —  wore  it  with  an  en- 
trancing grace,  adorning  it  herself  rather  than  relying  upon 
it  to  enhance  her  charms.  A  crimson  head-dress  of  some 
fashion  confined  her  hair;  and  that  same  was  dark  —  nay, 
black.  And  there  was  a  kerchief  about  her  throat,  like  snow 

[201] 


Terence  O'Rourke,  Gentleman  Adventurer 

above  the  black  of  a  velvet  bodice,  which,  together  with  her 
spreading  skirt  of  crimson  cloth,  was  half  hidden  by  a  bright 
expanse  of  apron.  Moreover,  that  skirt  —  in  keeping  with 
the  custom  of  the  neighborhood  —  was  sensibly  short;  where- 
by it  was  made  evident  that  mademoiselle  might,  if  so  she 
wiUed,  boast  a  foot  of  quality,  an  ankle  .  .  . 

Promptly  O'Rourke's  thirst  became  unbearable,  and  he 
advanced  a  step  or  two  with  a  purposeful  air. 

Mademoiselle  as  promptly  disappeared  into  the  gloom  of 
the  inner  room. 

O'Rourke  followed  her  example,  finding  it  cool  within  and 
clean,  inviting,  and  tempting  to  dalliance.  There  was  a  great, 
cold  fireplace;  and  broad,  spotless  tables,  and  chairs  were 
ranged  about  upon  a  floor  of  earth  hard-packed  and  neatly 
sanded.  Also,  from  a  farther  room  came  odors  of  cookery, 
enchanting  first  his  nose  and  then  all  the  hungry  man  that 
was  O'Rourke. 

He  stalked  to  the  center  of  the  room,  half  blinded  by  his 
sudden  transition  from  the  sun  glare  to  this  comfortable 
gloom,  and  discovered  the  girl  standing  with  a  foot  on  the 
threshold  of  the  adjoining  apartment,  watching  him  over 
her  shoulder. 

O'Rourke  cleared  his  throat  harshly;  and  "What  would 
m'sieur?"  she  desired  to  know. 

"That,  me  dear,"  said  O'Rourke.  With  his  walking  stick 
he  indicated  one  of  the  row  of  steins  that  decorated  the  chim- 
neypiece.  "And,  mind  ye,  full  to  the  brim,"  he  stipulated. 

The  girl  murmured  a  reply,  and  went  about  his  bidding. 
Slowly,  with  a  suggestion  of  weariness  in  his  manner, 
O'Rourke  went  to  the  back  of  the  room,  where  he  found  a 
little  compartment,  partitioned  off,  containing  benches  and 
a  small  table. 

[  202  ] 


The  Inn  of  the  Winged  God 

On  the  table  he  seated  himself,  sighing  with  content.  A 
window,  open,  faced  him,  giving  upon  the  garden  of  the  inn. 
Without  there  was  a  vista  of  nodding  scarlet  hollyhocks,  of 
sunflowers,  of  hyacinths,  and  of  many  homely,  old-fashioned 
blooms  growing  in  orderly  luxuriance.  A  light  breeze  swept 
across  them,  bearing  their  fragrance  in  through  the  casement. 

O'Rourke  bared  his  head  to  it  gratefully,  and  fumbled  in 
his  pocket  for  pipe  and  tobacco. 

"Upon  me  word,"  he  sighed,  "'twill  be  hard  to  tear  me- 
self  away,  now!"  Nor  was  he  thinking  of  the  girl  just  then, 
nor  of  aught  save  the  homely  comfort  of  the  Inn  of  the  Winged 
God. 

He  began  to  smoke,  and,  smoking,  his  thoughts  wandered 
into  a  reverie;  so  that  he  sat  lost  to  his  surroundings,  staring 
at  the  hollyhocks  and  hyacinths  —  and  seeing  naught  but 
the  eyes  of  Beatrix,  Princesse  de  Grandlieu. 

The  girl's  step  failed  to  rouse  him;  he  stared  on,  out  of  the 
window,  giving  her  no  heed  as  she  waited  by  his  side  with 
the  foaming  stein. 

For  her  part,  she  seemed  patient  enough.  He  made  a 
gallant  figure  —  this  O'Rourke  —  sitting  at  ease  upon  the 
table.  And  some  such  thought  may  have  been  in  her  mind 
—  that  his  was  a  figure  to  fill  the  eyes  of  a  woman.  Her 
own  never  left  him  for  many  minutes. 

She  remarked  the  signs  of  travel:  the  dust  that  lay  thick 
upon  his  shoulders,  and  whitened  his  shoes;  the  drawn  look 
about  the  man's  eyes;  the  firm  lines  about  his  mouth  that 
told  of  steadfastness  and  determination.  And  she  sighed, 
but  very  softly. 

But  an  inn  maid  may  not  be  eying  a  stranger  for  hours  to- 
gether; she  has  her  duties  to  perform.  Presently  the  girl 
put  the  stein  down  with  a  little  crash. 

[203] 


Terence  O'Rourke,  Gentleman  Adventurer 

"M'sieur  is  served,"  she  announced  loudly. 

O'Rourke  came  to  with  a  little  start.  "Thank  you,  me 
dear,"  he  said,  and  buried  his  nose  in  the  froth.  "Faith," 
he  added,  lowering  the  vessel,  "  'tis  like  wine  —  or  your  eyes, 
darlint."  To  prove  this,  he  smiled  engagingly  into  those  eyes. 

She  did  not  appear  to  resent  the  compliment,  nor  his  man- 
ner. "M'sieur  has  traveled  far?"  she  would  know,  standing 
with  lowered  lashes,  her  slender  fingers  playing  diffidently 
with  a  fold  of  her  apron. 

"Not  so  far  that  I'm  blinded  to  your  sweet  face,"  he 
averred.  "But  'tis  truth  for  ye  that  I've  covered  many  a 
mile  since  sunrise." 

"M'sieur  does  not  come  from  these  parts?" 

"From  Paris." 

Although  she  stood  with  her  back  to  the  light,  and  though 
O'Rourke  could  distinguish  her  features  but  dimly,  yet  he 
saw  that  her  eyes  widened;  and  he  smiled  secretly  at  her 
simplicity. 

' '  From  Paris,  m'sieur  ?    But  that  is  far  ?  " 

"Quite  far,  darlint.  But  faith,  I've  no  cause  for  com- 
plaint." 

"M'sieur  means — "?  she  queried,  with  naive  bewilder- 
ment. 

"M'sieur,"  he  assured  her  gallantly,  "means  that  no 
journey  is  long  that  has  mam'selle  at  the  end  av  it." 

"Oh,  m'sieur!" — protesting. 

"Truth  —  me  word  for  it."  And  the  magnificent 
O'Rourke  put  a  franc  into  her  hand.  "The  change,"  he 
proclaimed  largely,  "ye  may  keep  for  yourself,  little  one. 
And  this  —  ye  may  keep  for  me,  if  ye  will." 

"M'sieur!" 

And  though  they  were  deeply  shadowed,  he  could  see  her 

[204] 


The  Inn  of  the  Winged  God 

cheeks  flaming  as  she  backed  away,  rubbing  the  caressed 
spot  with  the  corner  of  her  apron. 

O'Rourke  laughed  softly,  without  moving.  "  Don't  be 
angry  with  me,"  he  pleaded,  but  with  no  evident  contrition. 
"  What's  in  a  kiss,  me  dear  ?  Sure,  'tis  no  harm  at  all,  at 
all!  And  how  was  I  to  hold  meself  back,  now,  with  ye 
before  me,  pretty  as  a  picture  ?  " 

It  pleased  her  —  his  ready  tongue.  That  became  ap- 
parent, though  she  sought  to  hide  it  with  a  pretense  of 
indignation. 

"  One  would  think — "  she  tried  to  storm. 

"What,  now,  darlint?" 

"  One  would  almost  believe  m'sieur  the  Irishman !  " 

"  An  Irishman  I  am,  praises  be !  "  cried  O'Rourke,  for- 
getting his  role.  "  But  "  —  he  remembered  again  —  "  the 
Irishman ;  now,  who  might  that  be  ?  " 

"  M'sieur  le  Colonel  O'Rourke !  " 

"  What !  "  And  M'sieur  le  Colonel  O'Rourke  got  down 
from  the  table  hastily.  "  Ye  know  me  ?  "  he  demanded. 

The  girl's  astonishment  was  too  plain  to  be  ignored.  "  It 
is  not  that  m'sieur  is  himself  M'sieur  le  Colonel?  "  she  cried, 
putting  a  discreet  distance  between  them. 

"  'Tis  just  that.  And  how  would  ye  be  knowing  me  name, 
if  ye  please?" 

"  Why,  surely,  all  know  that  m'sieur  is  coming  to  Liitzel- 
burg!  "  cried  the  ingenuous  mam'selle.  "Else  why  should 
a  guard  be  stationed  at  every  road  crossing  the  frontier?" 

"  For  what,  will  ye  tell  me?  " 

"  For  what  but  to  keep  m'sieur  from  entering  ?  " 

"  As  ye  say,  for  what  else  ?  "  O'Rourke  stroked  his  chin, 
puzzled,  staring  at  this  girl  who  had  such  an  astonishing 
fund  of  information. 

[205] 


Terence  O'Rourke,  Gentleman  Adventurer 

"Am  I  so  unpopular,  then?"  he  asked. 

"Non,  m'sieur;  it  is  not  that.  It  is  that  m'sieur  is  a  friend 
of  M'sieur  Chambret,  and  — " 

"Yes,  yes,  darlint.     Go  on." 

He  spoke  soothingly,  for  he  desired  to  know  more.  But 
he  found  it  rather  annoying  that  the  girl  should  persist  in 
keeping  her  back  to  the  light;  it  was  difficult  to  read  her  face, 
through  the  shadows.  He  maneuvered  to  exchange  posi- 
tions with  mam'selle,  but  she  seemed  intuitively  to  divine 
his  purpose,  and  outwitted  the  man. 

"And,"  she  resumed,  under  encouragement,  "M'sieur 
Chambret  is  known  to  love  Madame  la  Duchesse,  whom 
Prince  Georges  wishes  to  marry.  It  is  known  to  all  that 
M'sieur  Chambret  was  requested  to  leave  Liitzelburg.  What 
is  more  natural  than  that  he  should  send  his  friend,  the  Irish 
adventurer,  to  avenge  him  —  to  take  his  place?" 

"Yes.  That's  all  very  well,  me  dear;  but  what  bewilders 
me  —  more  than  your  own  bright  eyes,  darlint  —  is :  how  did 
ye  discover  that  I  was  coming  here?" 

O'Rourke  endeavored  to  speak  lightly,  but  he  was  biting 
the  lip  of  him  over  that  epithet,  "Irish  adventurer";  in  which 
there  lurked  a  flavor  that  he  found  distasteful.  "'Tis  a 
sweet-smelling  reputation  I  bear  in  these  parts!"  he  thought 
ruefully. 

"What"  —  the  girl  leaned  toward  O'Rourke,  almost 
whispering;  whereby  she  riveted  his  attention  upon  her 
charms  as  well  as  upon  her  words  —  "is  more  natural, 
m'sieur,  than  that  Prince  Georges  should  set  a  watch  upon 
M'sieur  Chambret?" 

"Oh,  ho!"  said  the  Irishman.  "'Tis  meself  that  begins 
to  see  a  light.  And,  me  dear,"  he  added  sharply,  "ye  fill  me 
with  curiosity.  How  comes  it  that  ye  know  so  much?" 

[206] 


The  Inn  of  the  Winged  God 

"It  is  not  unnatural,  m'sieur."  Her  shrug  was  indescrib- 
ably significant  and  altogether  delightful.  "Have  I  not  a 
brother  in  Liitzelburg  castle,  valet  to  M'sieur  le  Prince  ?  If 
a  brother  drops  a  word  or  two,  to  his  sister,  now  and  then,  is 
she  to  be  blamed  for  his  indiscretions?" 

"Sure,  not!"  cried  the  Irishman  emphatically.  "Ye  are 
to  be  thanked,  I'm  thinking.  And  where  did  ye  say  this 
precious  frontier  lay?" 

"The  line  crosses  the  highway  not  the  quarter  of  a  mile  to 
the  south,  m'sieur.  You  will  know  it  when  you  are  stopped 
by  the  outpost." 

"Very  likely,  me  dear  —  if  so  be  it  I'm  stopped." 

And  as  she  watched  his  face,  the  girl  may  have  thought 
that  possibly  he  would  not  be  stopped;  for  there  was  an  ex- 
pression thereon  which  boded  ill  to  whomsoever  should  at- 
tempt to  hinder  the  O'Rourke  from  attending  to  the  business 
to  which  he  had  set  himself. 

"Mam'selle!"  he  bowed.  "I'm  infinitely  obliged  to  ye. 
Faith,  'tis  yourself  that  has  done  a  great  service  this  day  to  the 
O'Rourke  —  and  be  that  same  token  'tis  the  O'Rourke  that 
hardly  knows  how  to  reward  ye!" 

"But  — "  she  suggested  timidly,  yet  with  archness  lurking 
in  her  tone,  "does  not  M'sieur  le  Colonel  consider  that  he 
has  amply  rewarded  me,  in  advance?"  And  upon  these 
words  she  began  to  scrub  her  cheek  vigorously  with  her  apron. 

He  threw  back  his  head  and  laughed;  and  was  still  laugh- 
ing —  for  she  had  been  too  sharp  for  him  —  when  she  rose, 
with  a  warning  finger  upon  her  lips. 

"M'sieur!"  —  earnestly.  "Silence,  if  you  please  —  for 
your  life's  sake!" 

"  Eh!"  cried  O'Rourke  startled.  And  then  the  laugh  died 
in  his  throat.  The  girl  had  turned,  and  now  her  profile  was 

[207] 


black  against  the  sunny  window;  and  it  was  most  marvel- 
ously  perfect.  O'Rourke's  breath  came  fast  as  he  looked; 
for  she  was  surprisingly  fair  and  good  to  look  upon.  It  was 
the  first  time  he  had  seen  her  clearly  enough  to  fully  compre- 
hend her  perfection,  and  he  stood  for  a  moment,  without 
stirring,  or,  indeed,  coherently  thinking.  It  was  not  the 
nature  of  this  man  to  neglect  a  beautiful  woman  at  any  time; 
he  grudged  this  girl  no  meed  of  the  admiration  that  was  her 
due. 

In  a  moment  he  felt  her  fingers  soft  and  warm  about  his 
own ;  his  heart  leaped  —  an  Irishman's  heart,  not  fickle,  but 
inflammable;  and  then  he  repressed  an  exclamation  as  his 
fingers  were  crushed  in  a  grip  so  strong  and  commanding 
that  it  fairly  amazed  him. 

And,  "Silence;  ah,  silence,  m'sieur!"  the  girl  begged  him, 
in  a  whisper. 

Were  they  observed,  then?  He  turned  toward  the  outer 
door,  but  saw  no  one.  But  from  the  highway  there  came  a 
clatter  of  hoofs. 

"Soldiers!"  the  girl  breathed.  "Soldiers,  m'sieur,  from 
the  frontier  post.  Let  me  go.  I — " 

Almost  violently  she  wrested  her  hand  from  his,  darting 
toward  the  door  with  a  gesture  that  warned  him  back  to  his 
partitioned  corner  if  he  valued  his  incognito. 

Halfway  across  the  floor  she  shrank  back  with  a  little  cry 
of  dismay,  as  the  entrance  to  the  Inn  of  the  Winged  God  was 
darkened  by  two  new  arrivals. 

They  swung  into  the  room,  laughing  together:  tall  men 
both,  long  and  strong  of  limb,  with  the  bearing  of  men  con- 
fident of  their  place  and  prowess.  O'Rourke,  peering 
guardedly  out  from  his  corner,  saw  that  they  were  both  in 
uniform :  green  and  gold  tunics  above  closely  fitting  breeches 

[208] 


The  Inn  of  the  Winged  God 

of  white,  with  riding  boots  of  patent  leather  —  the  officers' 
uniform  of  the  ducal  army  of  Liitzelburg. 

Now,  since  his  coming,  the  taproom  of  the  Winged  God 
had  been  gradually  darkening  as  evening  drew  nigh.  Al- 
ready —  O'Rourke  was  surprised  to  observe  —  it  was  twi- 
light without;  now,  suddenly,  the  sun  sank  behind  the 
purple  ridge  of  the  distant  mountains,  and  at  once  gloom 
shrouded  the  room.  In  it  the  figures  of  the  two  soldiers 
loomed  large  and  vaguely. 

One  raised  his  voice,  calling:  "Lights!" 

The  girl  murmured  something,  moving  away. 

"Lights,  girl;  lights!" 

"I  will  send  some  one, messieurs,"  O'Rourke  heard  her  say. 

"Unnecessary,  my  dear,"  returned  the  first  speaker. 
"Come  hither,  little  one.  Here  is  the  lamp,  and  here  a 
match." 

Unwillingly,  it  seemed  to  the  Irishman,  the  inn  maid 
obeyed,  stepping  upon  a  bench  and  raising  her  arm  to  light 
the  single  lamp  that  depended  from  the  ceiling.  A  match 
flared  in  her  fingers,  illuminating  the  upturned,  intent  face. 

And  O'Rourke  caught  at  his  breath  again.  "Faith!"  he 
said  softly,  "she  is  that  wonderful!" 

Some  such  thought  seemed  to  cross  the  minds  of  both  the 
others,  at  the  same  moment.  One  swore  delicately  —  pre- 
sumably in  admiration;  his  fellow  shifted  to  a  killing  pose, 
twirling  his  mustache  —  the  elder  of  the  pair,  evidently,  and 
a  man  with  a  striking  distinction  of  carriage. 

The  girl  jumped  lightly  from  the  bench  and  turned  away; 
but  she  was  not  yet  to  be  permitted  to  retire,  it  seemed. 

"Here,  girl!"  called  he  who  had  mouthed  the  oath. 

She  turned  reluctantly;  the  glow  of  the  brightening  lamp 
fell  about  her  like  a  golden  aureole. 


"Messieurs?"  she  asked  with  a  certain  dignity. 

"So,"  drawled  the  elder  officer,  "you  are  a  new  maid,  I 
presume?" 

"Yes,  messieurs,"  she  replied,  courtesying  low  —  to  hide 
her  confusion,  perhaps;  for  she  was  crimson  under  their  bold 
appraisal  of  her  charms. 

"Ah!    Name,  little  one?" 

"Delphine,  messieurs." 

"Delphine,  eh?  A  most  charming  name,  for  a  most 
charming  girl!" 

"Merci,  messieurs!" 

She  dropped  a  second  humble  courtesy.  And  O'Rourke 
caught  himself  fancying  that  she  did  so  in  mockery — though, 
indeed,  such  spirit  would  have  assorted  strangely  with  her 
lowly  station. 

But  as  she  rose  and  confronted  the  men  again,  the  elder 
took  her  chin  between  his  thumb  and  forefinger,  roughly 
twisting  her  face  to  the  light. 

"Strange — "  he  started  to  say;  but  the  girl  jerked  away 
angrily. 

" Pardon,  messieurs,"  she  said,  "but  I  would — " 

Nor  did  she  finish  what  was  on  the  tip  of  her  tongue  for 
utterance.  For  she  was  turning  away,  making  as  though  to 
escape,  when  this  younger  man  clasped  her  suddenly  about 
the  waist;  and  before  she  realized  what  was  toward,  he  had 
kissed  her  squarely. 

O'Rourke  slid  from  his  table  seat,  with  a  little  low-toned 
oath.  But  for  the  moment  he  held  himself  back.  It  seemed 
as  though  Mademoiselle  Delphine  was  demonstrating  her 
ability  to  take  care  of  herself. 

Her  white  and  rounded  arm  shot  out  impetuously,  and  her 
five  fingers  impinged  upon  the  cheek  of  the  younger  man  with 

[210] 


The  Inn  of  the  Winged  God 

a  crack  like  a  pistol  shot.  He  jumped  away,  with  a  laughing 
cry  of  protest. 

"A  shrew!"  he  cried.     "A  termagant,  Prince  Georges!" 

In  another  moment  she  would  have  been  gone,  but  the 
elder  officer  was  not  to  be  denied. 

"No,  just  a  woman!"  he  corrected.  "A  tempestuous 
maid,  to  be  tamed,  Charles!  Not  so  fast,  little  one!"  And 
he  caught  her  by  the  arm. 

She  wheeled  upon  him  furiously,  with  a  threatening  hand; 
but  his  own  closed  about  her  wrist,  holding  her  helpless  the 
while  he  drew  her  steadily  toward  him. 

"But  one!"  he  pretended  to  beg.  "But  one  little  kiss, 
Mistress  Delphine!" 

"This  has  gone  about  far  enough,  messieurs,"  O'Rourke 
interposed,  judging  it  tune. 

For  it  is  one  thing  to  kiss  a  pretty  girl  yourself,  and  quite 
another  to  stand  by  and  watch  a  stranger  kiss  her  regardless 
of  her  will. 

So  he  came  down  toward  the  group  slowly,  with  a  protest- 
ing palm  upraised. 

But  the  prince  gave  him  hardly  a  glance;  he  was  intent 
upon  the  business  of  the  moment.  "Kick  this  fellow  out, 
Charles,"  he  cried  contemptuously,  relaxing  nothing  of  his 
hold  upon  the  girl.  And  then,  to  her:  "Come,  Mam'selle 
Delphine,  but  a  single  kiss — " 

"No!"  she  cried.     "No,  messieurs!" 

There  was  a  terror  in  her  tone  that  set  O'Rourke's  blood  to 
boiling.  He  forgot  himself,  forgot  the  danger  of  his  position 
—  that  danger  of  which  he  had  been  so  lately  apprised  by  the 
girl  herself.  He  laid  a  hand  upon  the  fellow's  collar,  with  no 
attempt  at  gentleness,  and  another  upon  his  wrist.  A  second 
later  the  prince  was  sprawling  in  the  sand  upon  the  floor. 

[311] 


Terence  O'Rourke,  Gentleman  Adventurer 

And  O'Rourke  promptly  found  himself  engaged  in  de- 
fending himself,  to  the  best  of  his  slight  ability,  from  a  down- 
ward sweep  of  the  younger  officer's  broadsword. 

"Ye  damned  coward!"  the  Irishman  cried,  ablaze  with 
rage. 

His  walking  stick  —  a  stout  blackthorn  relic  of  the  old 
country  —  deflected  the  blade.  The  young  officer  spat  a 
curse  at  him  and  struck  carelessly  again,  displaying  neither 
judgment  nor  skill.  O'Rourke  caught  the  blow  a  second 
time  upon  the  stick,  twisted  the  blackthorn  through  the  other's 
guard  and  rapped  him  sharply  across  the  knuckles. 

"Ye  infernal  poltroon!"  he  said  furiously.  "To  attack 
an  unarmed  man!" 

The  sword  swept  up  through  the  air  in  a  glittering  arc,  to 
fall  clattering  in  a  far  corner.  O'Rourke  gave  it  slight  heed. 
There  was  much  to  be  accomplished  ere  that  sword  should 
strike  the  earth. 

He  leaped  in  upon  the  younger  officer,  whirling  the  black- 
thorn above  his  head;  the  man  stepped  back,  raising  his  arms 
as  though  dazed.  The  stick  descended  with  force  enough  to 
beat  down  this  guard  and  crash  dully  upon  his  skull.  He 
fell  —  like  a  log,  in  fact ;  and  so  lay  still  for  a  space. 

And  O'Rourke  jumped  back  upon  the  instant,  and  just  in 
time  to  knock  a  revolver  from  the  hand  of  the  elder  man. 

"Ye,  too — a  coward!"  he  raged.  "Are  there  no  men  in 
this  land?" 

Simultaneously,  in  falling,  the  revolver  was  discharged. 
The  shot  rang  loudly  in  the  confines  of  the  taproom  walls, 
but  the  bullet  buried  itself  harmlessly  in  the  wainscoting. 
O'Rourke  jumped  for  it  and  kicked  the  pistol  through  the 
open  doorway. 

"So  much  for  that!"  he  cried,  darting  toward  the  comer 

[212] 


The  Inn  of  the  Winged  God 

where  the  sword  of  the  unconscious  man  had  fallen.  "  Come, 
Prince  Georges  of  Liitzelburg  —  princely  coward!"  he 
taunted  the  elder  man.  "Come  —  'tis  one  to  one,  now  — 
sword  to  sword,  monsieur!  Are  ye  afraid,  or  will  ye  fight  — 
ye  scum  of  the  earth?" 

He  need  hardly  have  asked.  Already  the  prince  was  upon 
his  feet,  and  had  drawn.  O'Rourke's  fingers  closed  upon 
the  hilt  of  the  saber.  A  thrill  ran  through  him;  this  was  his 
life  to  him,  to  face  odds,  to  have  a  sword  in  his  hand. 

"  Good ! "  he  cried  joyfully.    "  Now,  Monsieur  le  Prince  1" 

He  met  the  onslaught  with  a  hasty  parry.  A  cluster  of 
sparks  flew  from  the  blades,  O'Rourke  boldly  stepped  in 
to  close  quarters,  his  right  arm  swinging  the  heavy  saber  like 
a  feather,  his  left  ending  in  a  clenched  hand  held  tightly  to 
the  small  of  his  back. 

The  room  filled  with  the  ringing  clangor  of  the  clashing 
steel.  Prince  Georges  at  least  was  not  afraid  of  personal 
hurt;  he  engaged  the  Irishman  closely,  cutting  and  parrying 
with  splendid  skill  —  a  wonderful  swordsman,  a  beau  sa- 
breur,  master  of  his  weapon  and — master  of  O'Rourke.  The 
Irishman  was  quick  to  realize  this.  He  had  met  more  than 
his  match;  the  man  who  opposed  him  was  his  equal  in  weight 
and  length  of  arm,  his  equal  in  defense,  his  superior  in  attack. 
He  fought  at  close  quarters,  giving  not  an  inch,  but  rather 
ever  pressing  in  upon  him,  hammering  down  upon  his  guard 
a  veritable  tornado  of  crashing  blows. 

O'Rourke  reeled  and  gave  ground  under  the  furious  on- 
slaught. He  leaped  away  time  and  again,  only  to  find  the 
prince  again  upon  him,  abating  no  whit  of  his  determined 
attack.  In  his  eyes  O'Rourke  read  nothing  of  mercy,  naught 
but  a  perhaps  long  dormant  blood-lust  suddenly  roused. 
He  came  to  an  understanding  that  he  was  fighting  for  his  life, 

[213] 


Terence  O'Rourke,  Gentleman  Adventurer 

that  this  was  no  mere  fencing  bout,  —  no  child's  play,  but 
deadly  earnest.  And  with  his  mind's  eye  he  foresaw  the 
outcome. 

Well  —  one  can  but  die.  At  least  Prince  Georges  should 
have  his  fill  of  fighting;  and  an  Irishman  who  fights  hopelessly 
fights  with  all  the  reckless  rage  of  a  rat  in  a  corner. 

So  O'Rourke  fought,  there  in  the  taproom  of  the  Inn  of  the 
Winged  God.  He  took  no  risks,  ventured  nothing  of  doubt- 
ful outcome.  If  a  chance  for  an  attack  was  to  come,  he  was 
ready  for  it,  his  eye  like  a  cat's  alert  for  an  opening  for  thrust 
or  slashing  cut.  But  if  that  was  to  be  denied  him,  he  had  an 
impregnable  defense,  seemingly.  He  might  retreat  —  and 
he  did,  thrice  circling  the  room  —  but  he  retreated  fighting. 
And  so,  fighting,  he  would  fall  when  his  time  came. 

In  one  thing  only  he  surpassed  the  aggressor  —  in  endur- 
ance. His  outdoor  life  of  the  past  few  days  had  put  him  in 
splendid  trim.  He  battled  on,  with  hardly  a  hair  displaced; 
whereas  Monsieur  le  Prince  pressed  his  advantage  by  main 
will-power,  advancing  with  some  difficulty  because  of  the 
heaving  of  his  broad  chest,  gasping  for  air,  at  times,  like  a 
fish  out  of  its  element  —  but  ever  advancing,  ever  pressing 
the  Irishman  to  the  utmost. 

Thrice  they  made  the  circuit  of  the  room,  O'Rourke  escap- 
ing a  fall  or  collision  with  the  tables  and  chairs  seemingly  by 
a  sixth  sense  —  an  eye  in.  the  back  of  his  head  that  warned 
him  of  obstacles  that  might  easily  have  encompassed  his 
downfall. 

He  was  outgeneraled,  too;  twice  he  endeavored  to  back 
himself  through  the  outer  doorway,  and  both  times  the  prince 
got  between  the  Irishman  and  his  sole  remaining  hope  of 
escape. 

And  then  it  narrowed  down  to  a  mere  contest  of  endurance 


The  Inn  of  the  Winged  God 

—  Monsieur  le  Prince  already  tired,  and  O'Rourke,  fast  fail- 
ing, beginning  to  feel  the  effects  of  his  day's  long  tramp. 
The  room  began  to  whirl  dizzily  about  them  both  —  like  a 
changing,  hazy  panorama,  wherein  O'Rourke  was  dimly 
conscious  of  pink,  gaping  faces  filling  the  doorways,  and  the 
round,  staring  eyes  of  frightened  and  awed  peasants  at  the 
windows. 

And  so,  possibly,  it  was  as  a  relief  to  both  when,  eventually, 
the  Irishman  managed  to  get  the  breadth  of  a  table  between 
them,  and  when  each  was  free  to  pause  and  gasp  for  breath 
the  while  they  glared  one  at  the  other,  measuring  each  his 
opponent's  staying  powers  —  for  to  a  test  of  sheer  lasting 
ability  it  was  now  come.  The  man  who  should  be  able  to 
keep  upon  his  feet  the  longest — he  was  to  win.  And  neither 
read  "quarter"  in  his  enemy's  eyes. 

As  they  stood  thus,  watching  one  another  jealously,  out  of 
the  tail  of  his  eye  O'Rourke  saw  the  fallen  officer — Charles 
— stir,  and  sit  upright.  He  dared  not  take  his  attention  from 
the  prince,  and  yet  he  was  able  to  note  that  the  younger  man 
at  first  stared  confusedly,  then  staggered  to  his  feet,  and  so 
doing,  put  his  hand  to  his  pistol  holster. 

Opportunely  a  curious  thing  occurred.  A  voice  rang 
through  the  room  loudly,  cheerfully: 

"The  O'Rourke!"  it  stated  explicitly,  "Or  Satan  him- 
self!" 

All  three  turned,  by  a  common  impulse,  toward  the  outer 
door.  It  framed  a  man  entirely  at  his  ease,  dressed  in  the 
grotesque  arrangement  that  constitutes  an  automobiling  cos- 
tume in  these  days,  holding  in  his  left  hand  the  goggle  mask 
which  the  driver  affects.  But  in  the  other  hand,  level  with 
his  eye,  he  poised  a  revolver,  the  muzzle  of  which  was  directly 
trained  upon  him  whom  Prince  Georges  had  called  Charles. 

[«$] 


"Chambret!"  cried  O'Rourke.  "Upon  me  soul,  ye're 
welcome!" 

"I  thought  as  much,  my  friend,"  replied  Chambret.  "And 
I  am  glad  to  be  in  time  to  —  to  see  fair  play,  Colonel  Charles ! 
May  I  suggest,  monsieur,  that  you  take  your  hand  from  the 
butt  of  that  weapon  and  stand  aside  until  my  friend  has  set- 
tled his  little  affair  with  Monsieur  le  Prince?" 

The  face  of  the  young  officer  flushed  darkly  red;  he  bit  his 
lip  with  rage,  darting  toward  Chambret  a  venomous  glance. 
Yet  he  stood  aside,  very  obediently,  as  a  wiser  man  than  he 
might  well  have  done. 

"O'Rourke!"  then  cried  Chambret.  "Guard,  my  friend 
—  guard  yourself!" 

It  was  time.  Monsieur  le  Prince,  sticking  at  nothing,  had 
edged  stealthily  around  the  table.  O'Rourke,  startled,  put 
himself  in  a  defensive  position  in  the  very  nick  of  time. 
Another  moment  and  Chambret's  warning  had  been  vain. 

Again  they  fought,  but  now  less  spiritedly;  to  O'Rourke 
it  seemed  as  though  the  contest  had  degenerated  into  a  mere 
endeavor  to  kill  time,  rather  than  to  dispose  of  one  another. 
And  yet  he  was  acutely  conscious  that  a  single  misstep  would 
seal  his  death  warrant. 

He  found  time,  too,  to  wonder  even  a  trifle  bitterly  what 
had  become  of  Mademoiselle  Delphine.  It  seemed  passing 
strange  that  he  saw  naught  of  her  —  had  missed  her  ever 
since  he  had  come  to  her  aid.  Surely  she  had  been  very  well 
content  to  leave  him  to  his  fate,  once  he  had  championed  her 
cause!  It  was  strange,  he  thought,  according  to  his  lights 
very  odd  .  .  . 

And  so  thinking,  he  became  aware  that  the  brief  interval 
seemed  to  have  refreshed  Monsieur  le  Prince  more  than  it 
had  himself. 

[216] 


The  Inn  of  the  Winged  God 

Georges  now  seemed  possessed  of  seven  devils,  all  a-thirst 
for  the  soul  of  O'Rourke.  He  flew  at  him,  abruptly,  without 
the  least  warning,  like  a  whirlwind.  O'Rourke  was  beaten 
back  a  dozen  yards  in  as  many  seconds.  There  was  no 
killing  time  about  the  present  combat  —  O'Rourke  well 
knew. 

And  he  felt  himself  steadily  failing.  Once  he  slipped  and 
all  but  went  to  his  knees,  and  when  he  recovered  was 
trembling  in  every  limb  like  an  aspen  leaf.  And,  again,  he 
blundered  into  a  chair  and  sent  it  crashing  to  the  floor;  when 
it  seemed  ages  ere  he  managed  to  disentangle  his  feet  from 
its  rounds  —  seemed  the  longer  since  the  sword  of  Prince 
Georges  quivered  over  him  like  the  wrath  of  a  just  God, 
relentless  and  terrible. 

He  had  one  last  hope  —  to  get  himself  in  a  corner,  with 
his  back  to  the  wall,  and  stand  Monsieur  le  Prince  off  to 
the  bitter  end.  At  least,  he  prayed  he  might  get  in  one  good 
blow  before  —  that  end.  And  so  he  made  for  the  corner 
nearest  him. 

In  the  end  he  gained  it  against  odds  —  for  Prince  Georges 
divined  his  purpose  and  did  his  utmost  to  thwart  it.  But 
when  at  last  the  Irishman  had  gained  this  slight  advantage, 
his  heart  sank  within  him;  Georges  closed  fearlessly,  not  keep- 
ing at  sword's  length,  as  O'Rourke  had  trusted  he  might. 

O'Rourke  was  flattened,  fairly,  against  that  wall.  He 
fought  with  desperate  cunning,  but  ever  more  feebly.  "  God!" 
he  cried  once,  between  clinched  teeth.  "  Could  I  but  touch 
him!" 

Georges  heard,  grinning  maliciously. 

"Never,  fortune  hunter!"  he  returned,  redoubling  his 
efforts.  "You  may  well  pray  — " 

What  else  he  said  O'Rourke  never  knew,  for  at  that  instant 


he  felt  the  wall  give  to  the  pressure  of  his  shoulders,  and  a 
breath  of  cool  air  swept  past  him. 

"A  door!"  he  thought,  and,  leaping  backwards,  fell  sprawl- 
ing in  utter  darkness. 

It  was  indeed  a  door.  As  he  lay  there  the  Irishman  caught 
a  transient  glimpse  of  a  woman's  head  and  shoulders  outlined 
against  the  light,  and  then  the  door  was  closed,  and  he  heard 
her  throw  herself  bodily  against  it,  with  the  dull  click  of  a 
bolt  shot  home;  also  a  maddened  oath,  and  a  terrific  blow 
delivered  upon  the  panels  by  the  sword  of  Monsieur  le  Prince. 


[218] 


CHAPTER  III 

THE  NIGHT  OF  MADNESS 

O'RouRKE  was  prompt  to  scramble  to  his  feet.  He  found 
himself  surrounded  by  a  profound  blackness.  The  place 
wherein  he  stood  was  like  the  very  heart  of  night  itself.  But 
for  the  quick  flutter  of  the  breath  of  the  woman  who  was  near 
him,  he  was  without  an  inkling  as  to  where  he  might  be. 

But  for  the  moment  he  was  content  to  know  that  he  was 
with  her.  He  groped  in  the  darkness  with  a  tentative  hand, 
which  presently  encountered  the  girl's,  and  closed  upon  it; 
and  he  started  to  speak,  but  she  gave  him  pause. 

"Hush,  m'sieur!"  she  breathed.  "Hush  —  and  come 
with  me  quickly.  You  have  not  an  instant  to  — " 

Her  concluding  word  was  drowned  in  the  report  of  a  pistol. 
The  girl  started,  with  a  frightened  cry.  A  roar  of  cursing 
filled  the  room  which  the  O'Rourke,  providentially,  had  just 
quitted.  It  subsided  suddenly;  and  then  the  two  heard  the 
cool,  incisive  accents  of  Chambret. 

"Not  so  fast,  Monsieur  le  Prince,"  they  heard  him  say, 
warningly.  "  Take  it  with  more  aplomb,  I  advise  you.  Upon 
my  word  of  honor,  you  die  if  you  move  a  finger  within  ten 
minutes!" 

"And  then  — ?"  came  the  wrathful  voice  of  Georges. 

"Then,"  returned  Chambret,  delicately  ironical,  "I  shall 
be  pleased  to  leave  you  to  your  —  devices  —  shall  we  call 
them?  For  my  part,  I  shall  go  on  my  way  in  my  automo- 
bile." 

[219] 


Terence  O'Rourke,  Gentleman  Adventurer 

They  heard  no  more.  The  girl  was  already  dragging 
O'Rourke  away. 

"Ten  minutes!"  she  whispered  gratefully. 

"'Tis  every  bit  as  good  as  a  vear,  just  now,"  O'Rourke 
assured  her,  lightly  —  more  lightly  than  his  emotions  war- 
ranted, indeed. 

''Ah,  m'sieur!"  she  said  fearfully. 

"Whisht,  darlint,"  he  cried.  "Don't  ye  be  worrying 
about  me  now.  'Tis  the  O'Rourke  that  can  care  for  his 
head,  Mam'selle  Delphine  —  now  that  ye've  given  me  a 
fighting  chance." 

But  she  only  answered,  "Come!"  tugging  impatiently  at 
his  hand;  and  he  was  very  willing  to  follow  her,  even  unto 
the  ends  of  the  known  world,  as  long  as  he  might  be  so  led 
by  those  warm,  soft  fingers. 

But  he  grew  quite  bewildered  in  the  following  few  minutes. 
It  seemed  that  they  threaded  a  most  curious  maze  of  vacant 
rooms  and  sounding  galleries,  all  in  total  eclipse.  And  once, 
for  some  time,  they  were  passing  through  what  seemed  a  tun- 
nel, dark  and  musty,  wherein  the  Irishman,  by  putting  forth  his 
free  hand,  was  able  to  touch  a  rough,  damp  wall  of  hewn  stone. 

But  at  the  end  of  that  they  came  to  a  doorway,  where  they 
halted.  The  girl  evidently  produced  a  key,  for  she  released 
O'Rourke's  hand,  and  a  second  later  he  heard  the  grating 
of  a  rusty  lock  and  then  the  protests  of  reluctant  hinges. 

"And  where  will  this  be  taking  us?"  he  asked  at  length. 

"To  safety,  for  you,  I  pray,  m'sieur." 

"Thank  ye,  Mam'selle  Delphine." 

"Quick!"  she  interrupted  impatiently. 

A  rush  of  cool  air  and  fresh  enveloped  them.  O'Rourke 
stepped  out  after  the  girl,  who  turned  and  swung  to  the  door, 
relocking  it. 

[MO] 


The  Night  of  Madness 

They  were  standing  under  the  open  sky  of  night.  Abso- 
lute silence  lay  about  them;  infinite  peace  was  there,  under 
a  multitude  of  clear,  shining  stars.  The  change  was  so  ab- 
rupt as  to  seem  momentarily  unreal;  O'Rourke  shook  his 
head,  as  one  would  rid  his  brain  of  the  cobwebs  of  a  dream, 
then  looked  about  him. 

"Where  would  we  be,  now,  me  dear?"  he  asked. 

"Hush!"  she  cried  guardedly,  pointing. 

His  gaze  followed  the  line  of  her  arm,  and  he  discovered 
that  they  were  standing  upon  a  hillside  over  across  from  the 
Inn  of  the  Winged  God.  Its  doors  and  windows  were  flam- 
ing yellow  against  the  night;  and  set  square  against  the  illu- 
mination of  the  main  entrance,  O'Rourke  could  see  the  burly 
bulk  of  Chambret.  Without,  in  the  road,  loomed  the  black 
and  shining  mass  of  a  powerful  automobile,  its  motors  shaking,, 
its  lamps  glaring  balefully — seeming  a  living  thing,  O'Rourke 
fancied,  very  like  some  squat,  misshapen  nocturnal  monster. 

But  Chambret  did  not  stir;  and  from  that  the  Irishman 
knew  that  his  ten  minutes  was  not  yet  up.  Nevertheless,  he 
tightened  his  hold  upon  the  hilt  of  the  naked  saber  which  he 
still  carried,  and  started  back  toward  the  inn. 

The  girl  caught  him  by  the  arm. 

"WTiere  are  you  going?"  she  demanded. 

"Back."  O'Rourke  looked  down  upon  her  in  surprise. 
"Back  to  my  friend.  What!  Am  I,  too,  a  chicken-heart, 
to  leave  him  there,  alone — ?" 

"M'sieur  Chambret,"  she  interrupted,  "is  master  of  the 
situation,  M'sieur  le  Colonel.  He  can  take  care  of  himself." 

"You  know  him?" 

"  You  —  you  — "  For  an  instant  she  stammered,  at  a  loss 
for  her  answer.  "I  —  I  heard  you  name  him,  m'sieur,"  she 
made  shift  to  say  at  length. 

(  221  ] 


Terence  O'Rourke,  Gentleman  Adventurer 

"  Ah,  yes.    But,  for  all  that,  I'm  not  going  to  leave  him  —  " 

"Too  late,  m'sieur.    See!" 

Again  she  indicated  the  inn.  O'Rourke  looked,  swearing 
in  his  excitement  —  but  under  his  breath,  that  she  —  an  inn- 
maid! —  might  not  be  offended. 

He  saw  Chambret,  momentarily  as  he  had  been  —  steady 
and  solid  as  a  rock  in  the  doorway.  An  instant  later,  he  was 
gone;  and  from  the  taproom  came  a  volley  of  shouts  and 
curses,  tempered  to  faint  echoes  by  the  distance. 

Promptly  the  automobile  began  to  move.  And  as  it  did 
the  doorway  was  filled  with  struggling  men.  Chambret  ap- 
peared to  stand  up  in  the  machine;  his  revolver  spat  fire 
thrice. 

The  shots  were  answered  without  delay,  but  the  machine 
gathered  speed,  and  swept  snorting  westwards.  Prince 
Georges  and  Colonel  Charles  of  the  army  of  Liitzelburg 
were  to  be  seen  pursuing  it  down  the  road,  afoot,  pepper- 
ing the  night  with  futile  bullets  and  filling  it  with  foul  vitu- 
peration. 

Presently  they  must  have  realized  what  feeble  figures  they 
were  cutting  in  the  eyes  of  the  peasants;  for  they  halted.  By 
then  they  were  near  enough  for  their  high  and  angry  tones  to 
be  distinguishable  to  O'Rourke  and  the  girl. 

"Back!"  they  heard  Georges  cry.    "To  the  horses!" 

"But  we  cannot  overtake  him,  your  highness — " 

"Fool!  The  patrol  will  halt  him,  and  we  shall  arrive  in 
good  time." 

As  though  in  answer  to  Georges'  statement,  a  volley  of 
carbine  shots  rang  sharply  from  the  direction  of  the  frontier, 
continuing  for  a  full  minute,  to  be  followed  by  a  rapid,  dying 
clatter  of  horses'  hoofs. 

The  Frenchman's  automobile  had  reached  the  outpost, 

[  222  1 


The  Night  of  Madness 

had  dashed  through  its  surprised  resistance,  and  was  gone, 
on  to  Liitzelburg. 

So  much  Georges  surmised  —  and  truly.  "The  fools!" 
he  cried.  "They  were  not  alert  without  us,  Charles.  Come 
• —  let  us  get  back  to  the  inn.  At  least  we  have  left  to  us  that 
cursed  Irishman  and — " 

"If  so  be  it  they  have  not  already  escaped  through  the 
fields,"  interrupted  Charles. 

Their  voices  faded  into  murmurs  as  they  retreated.  The 
girl  tugged  at  O'Rourke's  hand. 

"Hurry,  m'sieur,"  she  implored. 

But  O'Rourke  was  thinking  of  his  comrade  and  the  gantlet 
he  had  just  run.  The  reports  of  the  carbines  still  filled  his 
ears  with  grim  forebodings. 

" God  send  that  he  was  not  hit!"  he  prayed  fervently.  "A 
true  man,  if  ever  one  lived." 

"Yes,  yes,  m'sieur.  But  come,  ah,  come!"  —  with  an 
odd  little  catch  in  her  voice. 

Obediently  O'Rourke  followed  her.  They  trod  for  a  time 
upon  a  little  path,  worn  through  the  open  fields,  making 
toward  a  stretch  of  forest  that  loomed  dimly  vast  and  mys- 
terious to  the  southwards. 

"I'm  wondering,  Mam'selle  Delphine,"  said  the  Irishman, 
"how  we  got  out  there  on  the  hillside." 

"By  an  underground  passage,"  she  explained  impatiently. 
"The  inn,"  she  added,  "is  old;  it  bore  not  always  as  good  a 
reputation  as  it  does  now." 

" Thank  ye,"  he  said.  "And  since  ye  can  tell  me  that,  can 
ye  not  go  a  bit  further  and  tell  me  how  I  am  to  balance  me 
account  with  ye,  mam'selle?" 

"Yes,"  she  replied;  "I  — I  will  tell  you." 

There  was  a  strange  hesitation  in  her  speech  —  as  though 


Terence  O'Rourke,  Gentleman  Adventurer 

some  emotion  choked  her.  O'Rourke  wondered,  as,  silently 
now,  since  she  did  not  at  once  make  good  her  words  and  in- 
form him,  he  followed  her  across  the  fields. 

Nor,  indeed,  did  mam'selle  of  the  inn  speak  again  until  she 
had  brought  the  Irishman  to  the  edge  of  that  woodland,  and 
for  a  moment  or  two  had  skirted  its  depths.  Abruptly,  she 
paused,  turning  toward  him  and  laying  a  tentative  hand  upon 
his  arm. 

"M'sieur,"  she  said  —  and  again  with  the  little  catch  in 
her  tone,  —  "here  lies  the  frontier  of  France." 

"And  there  —  Liitzelburg?"  he  inquired,  unawed. 

"Yes  —  beyond  the  white  stone." 

The  white  stone  of  the  boundary  was  no  more  than  a  yard 
away.  "Come!"  cried  O'Rourke;  and  in  two  steps  was  in 
Liitzelburg. 

" Did  ye  think  me  the  man  to  hesitate?"  he  asked  wonder- 
ingly.  "Did  ye  think  I'd  draw  back  me  hand  —  especially 
after  what's  passed  between  meself  and  that  dog,  Monsieur 
le  Prince?" 

"I  did  not  know,"  she  confessed,  looking  up  into  his 
face.  "M'sieur  is  very  bold;  for  M'sieur  le  Prince  sticks  at 
nothing." 

"Faith,  the  time  is  nigh  when  he'll  stick  at  the  O'Rourke, 
I  promise  ye!"  he  boasted,  with  his  heart  hot  within  him 
as  he  recalled  how  cowardly  had  been  the  attempt  upon 
him. 

She  smiled  a  little  at  his  assurance.  There  spoke  the  Irish- 
man, she  may  have  been  thinking.  But  her  smile  was  one 
heavenly  to  the  man. 

Allowances  may  be  made  for  him.  He  was  aged  neither 
in  years  nor  in  heart;  and  the  society  of  a  beautiful  woman 
was  something  for  which  he  had  starved  during  the  winter 


The  Night  of  Madness 

just  past.  And  surely  mam'selle's  face  was  very  lovely  as 
she  held  it  toward  his  —  pale,  glimmering  in  the  starlight, 
with  sweet,  deep  shadows  where  her  eyes  glowed,  her 
lips  a  bit  parted,  her  breath  coming  rapidly;  and  so  near 
to  him  she  stood  that  it  stirred  upon  his  cheek  like  a  soft 
caress. 

And  he  bent  toward  her  quickly.  Quickly,  but  not  so 
swiftly  that  she  might  not  escape;  which  she  did  with  a  move- 
ment as  agile  as  a  squirrel's;  thereafter  standing  a  little  way 
from  him,  and  laughing  half-heartedly. 

"Ah,  m'sieur!"  she  reproached  him  for  his  audacity. 

"I  don't  care!"  he  defied  her  anger.  "Why  will  ye  tempt 
me,  Mam'selle  Delphine  —  ye  with  your  sweet,  pretty  ways, 
and  that  toss  av  your  head  that's  like  an  invitation  —  though 
I  misdoubt  ye  are  meaning  the  half  of  it  ?  Am  I  a  man  or  — 
or  what?  —  that  I  should  be  cold  to  ye  — ?" 

"Ah,  but  you  are  a  man,  m'sieur,  as  you  have  to-night  well 
shown!"  she  told  him  desperately.  "You  were  asking  what 
you  could  do  to  even  our  score?" 

"Yes,  mam'selle." 

"Then,  monsieur — "  And  now  she  drew  nearer  to  him, 
trustingly,  almost  pleadingly.  "Then,  monsieur,  you  have- 
only  to  continue  what  you  set  out  to  do  —  even  at  the  risk 
of  your  life.  Ah,  monsieur,  it  is  much  that  I  ask,  but  —  am 
I  not  to  be  pitied?  Indeed,  I  am  mad,  quite  mad  with 
anxiety.  Go,  monsieur,  if  you  would  serve  me  —  go  on  and 
save  to  me  the  little  duke !  Think,  monsieur,  what  they  may 
be  doing  to  my  son — " 

"  Your  son  —  Mam'selle  Delphine!" 

O'Rourkc  jumped  back  as  though  he  had  been  shot,  then 
stood  stock-still,  transfixed  with  amazement.  "Your  son!" 
he  cried  again. 

[225] 


Terence  O'Rourke,  Gentleman  Adventurer 

"Ah,  monsieur,  yes.  It  is  true  that  I  deceived  you,  but  at 
first  it  was  to  save  you  from  arrest.  I  —  I  am  — " 

"Madame  la  Duchesse!"  he  cried.  "Blind  fool  that  I 
was,  not  to  have  guessed  it!  Pardon,  madame!"  And  he 
sank  upon  his  knee,  carrying  her  hand  to  his  lips.  "Mad- 
ame!" he  muttered  humbly.  "'Tis  the  O'Rourke  who 
would  go  to  the  ends  av  the  earth  to  serve  ye!" 

Was  it  accident,  premeditation  —  or  what  more  deep  — 
that  led  the  woman's  fingers  to  stray  among  the  soft,  dark 
curls  of  the  man? 

"Monsieur,  monsieur!"  she  cried  breathlessly.  "Rise. 
I  —  you  —  you  are  very  kind  to  me  ..." 

Her  voice  seemed  to  fail  her.  She  paused.  O'Rourke 
rose  slowly,  retaining  his  hold  upon  her  hand.  His  mind 
cast  back  in  rapid  retrospect  of  the  events  of  the  day,  since 
his  advent  at  the  Inn  of  the  Winged  God.  It  came  to  him 
as  a  flash  of  lightning,  this  revelation,  making  clear  much 
that  might  otherwise  have  been  thought  mysterious.  And 
he  knew  that  she  was  indeed  Madame  la  Duchesse  de  Liitzel- 
burg,  this  girl  —  she  seemed  no  more  —  this  girl  whom  he 
suddenly  found  himself  holding  in  his  arms,  who  sobbed 
passionately,  her  face  hidden  upon  his  breast. 

For  that,  too,  was  his  portion  there  in  the  infinite  quietude  of 
the  woodland,  under  the  soft-falling  radiance  of  God's  stars. 
How  it  came  to  pass  neither  could  have  told.  Whether  it  was 
brought  about  by  some  sudden  flush  of  dawning  love  on  her 
part  for  this  man  whom  many  had  loved  and  were  yet  to  love, 
or  by  the  tender,  impetuous  heart  of  him,  whose  blood  coursed 
in  his  veins  never  so  hotly  as  when  for  beauty  in  distress  — 
who  shall  say? 

But  one  thing  was  certain  —  that  she  lay  content  in  his 
arms  for  a  time.  All  other  things  were  of  no  account,  even 

[226] 


The  Night  of  Madness 

Chambret  and  Madame  la  Princesse,  Beatrix  de  Grandlieu. 
In  the  perilous  sweetness  of  that  moment  friendship  was  for- 
gotten, the  love  of  the  man's  life  lost,  engulfed  in  the  love  of 
the  moment.  The  world  reeled  dizzily  about  him,  and  the 
lips  of  the  grand  duchess  were  sweet  as  wine  to  a  faulting  man. 


I  227  ] 


CHAPTER  IV 

THE  RAT  TRAP 

BUT  she  first  came  to  her  senses,  in  time,  and  broke  from 
his  arms. 

"Ah,  monsieur!"  she  cried.  And  the  face  he  saw  was 
beautiful,  even  though  stained  by  tears,  though  wrung  by 
distress.  "But  this  is  madness,  madness!"  she  cried  again. 

"Sure,"  he  said  confusedly,  for  indeed  the  world  was 
upside  down  with  him  then,  "  'tis  the  sweetest  madness  that 
ever  mortal  did  know!  Faith,  me  head's  awhirl  with  that 
same  madness,  and  the  heart  of  me's  on  fire  —  ah,  madame, 
madame!" 

"No,"  she  cried  softly.  "No,  my  —  my  friend  —  I  —  I 
cannot  — "  And  she  put  forth  a  hand  to  ward  off  his  swift 
advances. 

Somehow  the  gesture  brought  reason  to  him  in  his  mad- 
ness. He  stopped,  catching  her  hand,  and  for  a  moment 
stood  with  bended  head,  holding  it  fast  but  tenderly. 

"Ye  are  right,  madame,"  he  said  at  length.  "I  was  the 
madman.  'Tis  past  now  —  the  seizure.  Can  ye  forgive 
me  —  and  forget,  madame?" 

"Monsieur,  to  forgive  is  not  hard."  She  smiled  dazzlingly 
through  a  mist  of  tears.  "To  forget  —  is  that  so  easy?" 

But  now  he  had  a  strong  hand  upon  his  self-control.  "  'Tis 
not  the  O'Rourke  that  will  be  forgetting,  madame,"  he  told 
her.  "But  Madame  la  Grande  Duchesse  de  Liitzelburg 

[228] 


The  Rat  Trap 

must  forget  —  and  well  I  know  that !  Let  be !  'Tis  past  — 
past  — and  there's  no  time  to  be  wasted,  I'm  thinking,  if  we 
are  to  outwit  Georges  this  night." 

"  That  —  that  is  very  true.  Thank  you,  monsieur.  You 
—  you  are  —  generous." 

She  came  closer  to  him,  her  eyes  upon  his  face.  But  he 
looked  away  from  her,  sinking  his  nails  deep  into  his  palms 
to  help  him  remember  his  place,  his  duty.  Indeed,  the  man 
was  sorely  tried  to  keep  his  arms  from  about  the  woman 
again.  "Chambret!"  he  remembered.  And  that  name  he 
repeated,  as  though  it  were  a  talisman  against  a  recurrence 
of  that  dear  madness.  " Beatrix!"  he  murmured,  also,  and 
grew  more  strong. 

"  Lead  on,  madame,"  he  presently  told  her,  his  tone  dogged. 

She  may  have  guessed  from  that  what  war  waged  itself  in 
the  bosom  of  O'Rourke.  Her  gaze  grew  very  soft  and  tender 
as  she  regarded  him.  And  Abruptly  she  wheeled  about  upon 
her  heel. 

"Come,  monsieur,"  she  requested  more  calmly.  "The 
night  is  young,  but,  as  you  say,  there  is  much  to  be  accom- 
plished." 

He  followed  her  on  into  the  fastnesses  of  the  forest,  where 
the  night  gathered  black  about  them,  and  he  could  only  guess 
his  way  by  the  glimmer  of  her  white  neckerchief  flitting  be- 
fore him. 

"Where  now,  madame?"  he  asked,  after  a  great  while; 
for  it  began  to  seem  as  though  they  were  to  walk  on  thus  for- 
ever, and  O'Rourke  was  growing  weary. 

"We  are  going  to  the  hunting  lodge  of  —  of  my  son,  the 
Grand  Duke,"  she  said.  And  her  manner  showed  what  con- 
straint she  put  upon  herself,  told  of  what  humiliation  of  spirit 
she  was  undergoing. 

[229] 


Terence  O'Rourke,  Gentleman  Adventurer 

"And  for  why?"  he  would  know. 

"It  is  where  I  shall  change  my  dress,"  she  said.  "I  have 
the  keys  to  the  place,  and  to-day,  when  it  seemed  that  I  must 
go  to  warn  you  of  your  danger,  monsieur — " 

"Bless  ye  for  that!"  he  interjected. 

"  I  bethought  me  of  the  lodge.  So,  with  two  maids,  I  went 
to  it  by  stealth.  They  do  not  know  now  in  Liitzelburg  what 
has  become  of  their  duchess.  I  disguised  myself  —  as  I 
thought  —  in  the  peasant  dress,  and  went  alone  and  on  foot 
to  the  inn. 

"Ye  knew  the  landlord,  madame?"  he  asked,  to  take  her 
mind  from  more  serious  matters. 

"I  knew  him,  yes,"  she  told  him,  "and  bribed  him  to  let 
me  take  the  place  of  his  servant  for  the  day.  Monsieur 
Chambret,of  course  you  understand,  had  advised  me  by  what 
road  you  would  enter  Liitzelburg.  Now,  it  is  to  bid  farewell 
to  Delphine  of  the  inn,  monsieur,  and  become  once  more  the 
Grand  Duchess  of  Liitzelburg." 

By  then  they  had  come  out  into  a  clearing  in  the  woodland. 
Before  them  a  small  building  loomed  dark  and  cheerless;  not 
a  glimmer  of  light  showed  in  any  of  its  windows.  Nor  was  a 
sound  to  be  heard  in  the  clearing,  save  the  soughing  of  the 
wind  in  the  boughs  overhead. 

"  By  my  orders,"  madame  paused  to  explain,  "  there  are  no 
lights,  the  better  to  attract  no  comment.  You  will  wait  for 
me  here,  my  friend"  —  she  turned  toward  him  timidly  — 
"my  dear  friend,  until  I  am  ready?" 

"Faith,  yes,  madame;  what  else?" 

"I  shall  not  be  long,"  she  said.  Yet  she  hesitated  at  the 
door  of  the  hunting  lodge,  smiling  at  O'Rourke  almost  air 
prehensively. 

"You  —  you  will  not  forget — "  she  faltered. 

[230] 


The  Rat  Trap 

"Madame,"  he  told  her  boldly,  "I  shall  never  forget  Mam'- 
selle  Delphine  of  the  Inn  of  the  Winged  God;  as  to  Madame 
la  Grand  Duchesse,  I  have  yet  to  meet  her." 

"Ah,  monsieur,  but  you  are  generous.  Thank  you,  thank 
you." 

The  woman  turned,  lifted  the  knocker  on  the  door,  and  let 
it  fall  thrice :  presumably  a  signal  agreed  upon  between  her 
and  her  companions.  The  thunder  of  the  metal  resounded 
emptily  through  the  house,  but  in  response  there  was  no 
other  sound.  Again  she  repeated  the  alarm,  and  again  was 
doomed  to  disappointment. 

"Why,  I  do  not  understand,"  she  cried  petulantly.  "Surely 
they  understood  me;  they  were  to  wait." 

The  Irishman  stepped  to  her  side  and  tried  the  knob;  under 
his  hand  it  turned,  the  door  opening  easily  inward  upon  its 
hinges.  Madame  stepped  back  with  a  little  cry  of  alarm. 

"I  do  not  understand,"  she  reiterated. 

"Something  frightened  them,  possibly,"  O'Rourke  re- 
assured her.  "One  moment.  Do  ye  wait  while  I  strike  ye 
a  light." 

He  crossed  the  threshold,  stepping  into  blank  darkness, 
and  heard  the  voice  of  madame. 

"The  lodge  is  lighted  by  electricity,"  she  was  telling  him 
from  her  stand  upon  the  doorsill.  "There  is  a  switch  on 
the  right-hand  wall,  near  the  window." 

"Where  did  you  say?"  he  inquired,  groping  about  blindly. 

"I  will  show  you,  monsieur." 

She  came  into  the  room  confidently.  "Thank  goodness!" 
exclaimed  O'Rourke  gratefully,  fearful  for  his  shins. 

He  heard  her  step  beside  him,  and  the  swish  of  her  skirt 
as  she  passed.  Abruptly  she  cried  out,  as  though  in  protest: 
"Monsieur,  what  do  you  mean?" 


Terence  O'Rourke,  Gentleman  Adventurer 

At  the  same  moment  the  door  swung  to  with  a  thunderous 
crash,  and  a  blaze  of  blinding  light  filled  the  interior  of  the 
hunting  lodge  of  the  Grand  Duke  of  Liitzelburg. 

For  the  moment  O'Rourke  could  do  naught  but  blink  con- 
fusedly, being  more  than  half  blinded  by  the  sudden  plunge 
from  utter  darkness  into  that  electric  glare. 

But  in  those  few  passing  seconds  he  thought  very  swiftly, 
and  began  to  understand  what  was  happening;  in  proof  of 
which  comprehension  he  stepped  back,  putting  his  shoulders 
to  the  closed  door  and  tightening  his  grip  upon  the  naked 
saber  which  he  still  carried. 

"A  trap!" 

He  ground  the  words  bitterly  between  his  teeth,  looking 
about  him  dazedly,  still  unable  to  see  clearly;  but  he  heard  a 
grim  chuckle  —  the  cold  laugh  of  malicious  satisfaction. 
And  then,  "Messieurs,"  said  a  voice  that  sounded  reminis- 
cently  in  his  ears,  "permit  me  to  introduce  the  rat!" 

O'Rourke  looked  directly  toward  the  speaker;  his  gaze 
met  eyes  hard  and  without  warmth  —  sneering  eyes  vitalized 
with  hatred,  small  and  black,  set  narrowly  in  a  face  pale  and 
long  —  the  face  of  Monsieur  le  Prince. 

And  as  he  watched,  the  thin  lips  twisted,  while  again  the 
scornful  laugh  rang  out. 

"Messieurs,"  the  prince  repeated,  "the  rat!" 

Some  one  laughed  nervously. 

O'Rourke  recovered  a  bit  of  his  lost  composure.  He  ad- 
dressed this  new-sprung  enemy.  "I'm  observing,"  he  said 
coolly,  "that  here  is  not  only  the  trap  and  the  rat,  but  also 
the  dog  for  the  rat-killing  —  ye  infamous  whelp!" 

He  was  looking  into  the  barrel  of  a  revolver,  held  in  the 
prince's  steady  hand  —  looking,  indeed,  into  death's  very 
eye.  And  he  knew  it,  yet  turned  a  contemptuous  shoulder 

[232] 


The  Rat  Trap 

to  Prince  Georges,  glancing  around  the  room  for  others, 
seeking  a  friendly  eye  or  a  way  of  escepe. 

The  lodge  —  or  that  room  of  it  wherein  he  stood  —  held 
five  persons  in  addition  to  O'Rourke  himself;  respectively, 
Madame  la  Grande  Duchesse,  pale  with  rage,  defiant  of 
mien,  helpless  with  the  arms  of  Colonel  Charles  clipped 
tight  about  her;  Chambret — at  the  sight  of  whom  O'Rourke 
caught  his  breath  with  dismay  —  sitting  helpless  in  a  chair, 
his  hands  tied  to  the  rungs  thereof;  Monsieur  le  Prince, 
Georges  de  Liitzelburg,  handsome  and  ironical  of  demeanor; 
and  a  fifth  individual,  in  semi-uniform,  whom  O'Rourke 
guessed  —  and  guessed  rightly,  it  developed  —  for  a  surgeon 
of  Liitzelburg's  army. 

"  Put  down  the  saber,"  the  Prince  told  him. 

And  O'Rourke  let  it  fall  from  his  hand,  being  in  that  case 
wherein  discretion  is  the  better  part  of  valor.  But  though 
he  was  now  unarmed,  the  revolver  continued  to  menace  him. 

"Let  madame  go,"  was  the  next  command,  directed  to 
Colonel  Charles,  who  promptly  released  the  duchess. 

"Messieurs,"  she  cried,  "I  demand  an  explanation  of  this 
insolence." 

Georges,  from  his  chair,  regarded  her  with  lofty  contempt. 
"It  is  strange,"  he  mused  aloud,  "that  a  prince  of  Lutzelburg 
should  be  addressed  in  such  wise  by  a  wench  of  the  inns!" 

"Ye  contemptible  scoundrel!"  cried  O'Rourke. 

"  Softly,  monsieur,  softly.  I  will  attend  to  your  case  pres- 
ently." 

"At  least  ye  will  adopt  a  different  tone  to  madame — " 
O'Rourke  pursued  undaunted. 

"I  shall  order  my  conduct  according  unto  my  whim,  mon- 
sieur. Another  word  out  of  you,  and  I'll  settle  you  at 
once." 

[233] 


Terence  O'Rourke,  Gentleman  Adventurer 

"Go  to  the  devil!"  cried  O'Rourke  defiantly,  without  look- 
ing again  at  the  man.  He  turned  to  Chambret. 

"A  pretty  mess  we  seem  to  have  made  of  this  business," 
said  the  Frenchman,  interpreting  his  glance. 

"  Ye  may  well  say  that.    What  brought  ye  here,  mon  ami  ? ' ' 

Chambret  shrugged  his  shoulders.  "The  patrol,"  he  ex- 
plained briefly.  "My  car  broke  down,  and  they  caught  up 
with  me.  What  could  I  do?" 

"True  for  ye  there.  And  d'ye  happen  to  know  what's  the 
program  now?" 

Chambret  glanced  toward  madame,  and  shut  his  lips 
tightly.  There  was  a  moment  of  strained  silence,  which 
Monsieur  le  Prince  took  upon  himself  to  break,  with  a  sar- 
castical  drawl  addressing  the  woman. 

"Permit  me,  dear  sister,"  he  said,  "to  offer  humble 
apologies  for  my  manner  a  moment  gone;  the  confusion  of 
identities,  you  understand  —  ah!  And,  more,  dear  sister,  I 
have  a  favor  to  request  of  you." 

She  looked  him  coldly  in  the  eye.  "Well?"  she  said, 
paling  with  her  disgust  for  the  man. 

"That  you  leave  us  alone  for  a  few  moments.  We  have 
business  to  transact  with  your  friends.  It  will  take  but  a 
minute,  I  assure  you,  and  is  a  matter  confidential  — " 

"I  will  not  go!"  she  cried,  grasping  his  meaning.  "I  will 
not  go,  to  let  you  murder — " 

"Ah!"  he  deprecated  smiling.  "Madame  is  pleased  to 
be  imaginative." 

"I  know  you!"  she  told  him.  "I  know  you  will  stop  at 
nothing.  And  I  tell  you  I  will  not  go!" 

"And  yet  you  will,"  he  said  with  an  air  of  finality. 

"It  would  be  best,  madame  —  permit  me  to  advise," 
O'Rourke  put  in  deferentially.  "Let  me  assure  ye  that  in 

[234] 


The  Rat  Trap 

this  enlightened  age,  even  a  Georges  de  Lutzelburg  will  not 
undertake  a  cold-blooded  murder  —  before  witnesses." 

He  stepped  forward,  opening  the  door  against  which  he 
stood.  Madame  looked  from  his  face  to  Chambret's,  from 
Monsieur  le  Prince's  back  to  O'Rourke's  again.  "I  am 
afraid — "  she  faltered;  then  abruptly  was  resolved,  and, 
holding  her  head  high,  passed  out  into  the  night. 

"You  will  be  kind  enough  to  shoot  the  bolt,"  O'Rourke 
heard  the  voice  of  the  prince.  Unhesitatingly  he  complied, 
turning  with  a  little  sigh  of  relief  to  face  whatever  Fate  might 
hold  in  store  for  him.  At  least  the  woman's  eye  was  not  to 
be  offended  by  this  princeling's  brutality.  As  for  himself, 
he,  O'Rourke,  could  take  what  was  to  be  his  portion  without 
complaining. 

"And  now  —  ?"  he  suggested  pleasantly. 

"Monsieur  is  agreeable,"  commented  the  prince:  "a  be- 
coming change.  See  here,"  he  added,  altering  his  manner, 
becoming  exceedingly  businesslike,  "it  is  a  plain  proposition. 
The  presence  of  yourself  and  of  Monsieur  Chambret  in  this 
duchy  is  distasteful  to  me.  You  seem,  however,  to  consult 
your  own  inclinations,  even  at  the  risk  of  your  necks. 
Frankly,  you  have  annoyed  me.  I  would  have  it  ended 
once  and  for  all.  Legally,  I  have  no  right  to  prohibit  your 
comings  or  your  goings.  Personally,  I  arrogate  unto  myself 
that  right.  If  I  request  you  to  absent  yourselves,  you  will 
courteously  refuse.  In  such  event,  there  is  to  my  mind  but 
one  solution  of  the  difficulty." 

"And  that  is — ?"  inquired  Chambret,  suddenly  bright- 
ening. 

"Release  monsieur,"  the  prince  commanded,  and  while 
Charles  did  his  bidding,  severing  the  cords  which  bound 
Chambret's  hands  to  the  chair,  he  pursued: 

[255] 


"And  that  is  —  a  settlement  of  our  differences  by  the 
sword.  Candidly,  messieurs,  you  know  too  much  for  my 
comfort.  I  would  gladly  be  rid  of  you.  By  this  method  I 
propose  to  silence  you  forever." 

"What!"  cried  O'Rourke.     "You  propose  a  duel?" 

"What  else?"  Monsieur  le  Prince  motioned  toward  a 
table  which,  standing  near  one  wall  of  the  room,  bore  a  long, 
black  rapier  case. 

"Faith,  I'm  agreeable,"  announced  O'Rourke.  "And 
you,  mon  ami?"  to  Chambret. 

"It  will  be  charming,"  returned  that  gentleman  with  a 
yawn.  "It  grows  late,  and  I  propose  to  sleep  in  a  bed  to- 
night, at  the  Grand  H6tel  de  Liitzelburg.  Decidedly,  let  us 
fight,  and  that  swiftly." 

"We  are  agreed,  then,  messieurs."  The  prince  rose,  went 
to  the  case,  returned  with  four  long,  keen  blades.  One  he 
selected  and  proceeded  to  test,  bending  it  well-nigh  double, 
and  permitting  it  to  spring  back,  shivering  —  a  perfect  rapier. 

"Good!"  he  expressed  his  satisfaction,  and  threw  the  re- 
maining three  blades  upon  the  floor,  at  O'Rourke's  feet. 

"Obviously,  the  Code  is  impossible  in  this  emergency," 
he  said  with  an  assured  air.  "Our  method  of  procedure 
will  be  simple  indeed,  but  it  will  bear  stating.  Monsieur 
Chambret  will  second  you,  monsieur,  in  the  first  bout,  Colonel 
Charles  performing  the  like  office  for  me.  In  the  second 
assault,  Monsieur  Bosquet,  surgeon  of  our  army,  will  second 
me,  Colonel  Charles  acting  for  Monsieur  Chambret." 

"But,"  objected  O'Rourke,  "providing  that  ye  do  not 
succeed  in  spitting  me,  O  princeling?" 

"In  that  case,  Charles  will  first  dispose  of  you,  then  of 
Monsieur  Chambret.  The  rules  hold  good,  either  way.  In 
any  event,  two  of  us  leave  the  room  feet  first." 

[236] 


The  Rat  Trap 

"I  believe  I  can  pick  their  names,"  laughed  O'Rourke. 

Georges   glowered   at   him   suspiciously.    It   may   have 
crossed  his  mind  that  the  Irishman  was  a  man  extremely  con 
fident  for  one  who  had,  practically,  one  foot  in  the  grave. 
But  he  made  no  reply. 

Smiling  his  satisfaction  —  for  indeed  this  was  very  much 
to  his  taste  —  O'Rourke  stooped  and  possessed  himself  of  a 
sword.  He  caused  the  yard  of  steel  to  sing  through  the 
air,  bent  it,  threw  it  lightly  up,  and  caught  it  by  the  hilt, 
laughing  with  pleasure. 

Had  he  himself  pulled  the  strings  that  were  moving  the 
puppets  in  this  little  drama,  he  was  thinking,  he  could  have 
devised  no  situation  more  thoroughly  after  his  own  heart. 

Monsieur  le  Prince,  he  surmised,  thought  to  administer  to 
him  first  of  all  a  speedy  and  sure  coup  de  grace.  Having  dis- 
covered that  the  Irishman  was  no  match  for  him  with  the 
broadsword,  doubtless  the  prince  considered  that  proof  of 
his  own  superiority  with  the  rapier  —  a  weapon  naturally 
of  a  greater  delicacy,  requiring  greater  subtlety  and  more 
assured  finesse  in  its  handling  than  the  saber. 

Colonel  Charles  meanwhile  advanced,  picked  up  the  two 
swords,  offering  one  to  Chambret,  who  accepted  with  a  cour- 
teous bow,  removing  his  coat  and  rolling  up  his  cuffs  ere 
putting  himself  on  one  side  of  the  room,  opposite  Charles, 
leaving  the  center  of  the  floor  bare  for  the  principals. 

O'Rourke  shed  his  jacket,  bared  his  wrists,  again  seized 
the  rapier.  He  brought  his  heels  together  smartly  with  a 
click,  saluted  gracefully,  and  lunged  at  the  empty  air. 

Monsieur  le  Prince  watched  him  with  appreciation. 
"Very  pretty,"  he  conceded.  "I  am  glad  you  have  attended 
a  fencing  school,  m'sieur.  It  is  a  matter  for  self-congratula- 
tion that  I  have  not  to  slay  an  absolute  novice." 

[237] 


Terence  O'Rourke,  Gentleman  Adventurer 

O'Rourke  affected  an  extreme  air  of  surprise. 

"Ye  have  scruples,  then?"  he  gibed. 

But  already  Georges'  face  had  become  masklike,  expres- 
sionless —  the  face  of  a  professional  gambler  about  to  fleece 
a  dupe. 

'"Twill  be  hard  to  rattle  him,  I'm  thinking,"  said 
O'Rourke  to  himself.  Aloud,  "Since  we  waive  code  eti- 
quette, monsieur,"  he  announced,  "I  am  ready." 

Monsieur  le  Prince  saluted  silently,  and  put  himself  on 
guard  simultaneously  with  the  Irishman's  guard. 

Their  blades  slithered,  clashed,  striking  a  clear,  bell-like 
note  in  the  otherwise  deathly  silence  that  obtained  within 
the  lodge. 

Chambret  and  Charles  advanced  cautiously  from  their 
walls,  watching  the  crossed  swords  with  an  eternal  vigilance, 
their  own  weapons  alert  to  strike  them  up  at  the  first  suspi- 
cion of  a  foul  on  either  side. 

For  a  moment  the  two  combatants  remained  almost  mo- 
tionless, endeavoring  each  to  divine  his  antagonist's  method, 
striving  each  to  solve  the  secret  of  his  opponent's  maturing 
campaign. 

Then,  looking  straight  into  the  prince's  eyes,  "Come, 
come!"  invited  O'Rourke.  "Have  ye  lost  heart  entirely, 
man?  Don't  keep  me  waiting  all  day." 

Georges  made  no  reply  save  by  a  lightning-like  lunge, 
which  O'Rourke  parried  imperturbably. 

"Clever,"  he  admitted  cheerfully.  "But  too  sudden, 
Monsieur  le  Prince.  More  carefully  another  time,  if  ye 
please." 

Again  he  parried,  riposting  smartly;  the  point  of  his  rapier 
rang  loudly  upon  the  guard  of  the  prince's. 

"  Careful,  careful,"  warned  O'Rourke,  gaining  a  step  or  two, 

[238! 


The  Rat  Trap 

"Be  the  way,"  he  suggested  suddenly.  "Faith,  'tis  me- 
self  that's  growing  forgetful,  monsieur.  Before  I  put  ye  out 
of  your  misery,  tell  me  now,  where  is  little  Duke  Jehan?" 

"Be  silent,  dog!"  snarled  the  prince. 

"Be  polite,  ye  scum  of  the  earth!" 

And  O'Rourke,  feinting,  put  his  point  within  the  prince's 
guard  and  ripped  his  shirt-sleeve  to  the  shoulder. 

"Just  to  show  ye  I  could  do  it,"  he  chuckled.  "Another 
time,  I'll  not  be  so  merciful.  Tell  me,  now,  where  have  ye 
put  the  child?" 

He  lunged  thrice  with  bewildering  rapidity.  The  prince 
gave  way  a  half  dozen  feet  of  ground  under  the  fury  of  the 
attack. 

"Tell  me!"  thundered  O'Rourke,  "before  I  do  ye  a  hurt, 
man!" 

But  the  answer  he  got  was  a  stubborn  silence. 

From  that  point  he  forced  the  fighting  to  the  end.  It  was 
even  as  he  had  suspected:  he  was  in  no  way  inferior  to 
Georges.  Rather  was  the  contrary  the  case,  for  the  prince, 
marvelous  swordsman  though  he  was,  fought  by  the  rigid 
rules  of  a  single  school  —  the  French,  while  O'Rourke  fought 
with  a  composite  knowledge,  skilled  in  as  many  methods  as 
there  were  flags  under  which  he  had  served. 

Slowly,  carefully,  and  relentlessly  he  advanced,  obliging 
Monsieur  le  Prince  to  concede  foot  after  foot  of  ground.  And 
the  combat,  which  had  begun  in  the  center  of  the  floor  — 
and  the  room  was  both  wide  and  deep  —  by  gradual  degrees 
was  carried  down  its  center  to  the  wall  farthest  from  the  door. 

And  with  ever)7  skilful  thrust,  he  dinned  into  the  ears  of 
the  other  an  insistent  query: 

"Where  have  ye  put  the  child,  monsieur?" 

Presently  Georges  found  himself  fairly  pinned  to  the  wail. 

[239] 


Terence  O'Rourke,  Gentleman  Adventurer 

He  attempted  an  escape  this  way  and  that,  to  the  one  side 
or  the  other,  but  ever  vainly ;  and  ever,  as  he  sought  to  make 
him  a  path  with  feint  or  thrust  or  tricky  footwork,  he  found 
his  path  barred  with  a  threatening  point,  like  a  spot  of  danc- 
ing fire  engirdling  him  about. 

For  the  Irishman  seemed  to  wield  a  dozen  swords,  and  as 
many  menacing  points  enmeshed  Georges  de  Liitzelburg, 
denying  him  even  hope. 

O'Rourke's  wrist  was  seemingly  of  steel,  tempered  like  a 
fine  spring;  his  sword  gave  nothing,  took  all  ungratefully,  and 
cried  aloud  for  more  and  more  of  the  prince's  failing  strength. 
The  eye  of  the  Irishman  was  clear  and  keen  —  now  hard  and 
ruthless  of  aspect.  And  his  defense  was  a  wall  impregnable. 

"Tell  me,"  he  chanted  monotonously,  "what  have  ye  done 
with  the  little  duke?" 

Slowly  the  prince  conceded  to  himself  defeat,  and  yet  he 
sought  about  for  a  desperate  expedient  toward  escape,  be  that 
however  shameful,  so  long  as  it  saved  him  his  worthless 
life. 

A  hunted  look  crept  into  the  man's  eyes,  and  his  breath 
came  short  and  gaspingly,  as  he  struggled  to  advance  one 
foot,  even,  from  the  wall  that  so  hampered  him  —  and  had 
his  striving  for  his  pains. 

With  the  realization  of  his  fate  dancing  before  his  weary 
eyes,  yet  he  rallied  and  fought  for  a  time  insanely,  sapping 
his  vitality  with  useless  feints  and  maddened  lunges  that  came 
to  naught  but  O'Rourke's  furthered  advantage. 

And  then,  "It  is  over,"  he  told  himself. 

O'Rourke's  ceaseless  inquiry  rang  in  his  ears  like  a  clarion 
knell: 

"Where  is  the  Grand  Duke  of  Liitzelburg,  dead  man?" 

Fencing  desperately,  "Will  you  give  me  my  life  if  I  tell?" 

[240] 


The  Rat  Trap 

'•That  will  I,  though  ye  don't  deserve  it!" 

"Hidden  in  my  personal  apartments  at  the  castle,"  panted 
the  man. 

O'Rourke  incautiously  drew  off,  lowering  his  point  a  trifle. 
"Is  that  the  truth?"  he  demanded  fiercely. 

"Truth,  indeed,"  returned  the  duke. 

At  the  moment  a  slight  exclamation  from  Charles  made 
the  Irishman  turn  his  head.  For  a  passing  second  he  was 
off  his  guard.  That  second  Monsieur  le  Prince  seized  upon. 

"The  truth,"  he  gasped,  "but  you'll  never  live  to  tell  it!" 

And  on  the  words  he  lunged. 

Some  instinct  made  O'Rourke  jump.  It  saved  his  life. 
The  blade  passed  through  his  sword  arm  cleanly,  and  was 
withdrawn.  The  pain  of  it  brought  a  cry  to  his  lips.  "Ye 
contemptible  coward!"  he  cried,  turning  upon  the  prince. 

The  treachery  of  it  made  his  blood  boil.  A  flush  of  rage 
colored  his  brain,  so  that  he  seemed  to  see  the  world  darkly, 
through  a  mist  of  scarlet  wherein  only  the  face  of  his  enemy 
was  visible. 

He  turned  upon  the  prince,  shifting  his  rapier  to  his  left 
hand.  The  very  surprise  of  his  movements  proved  the 
prince's  undoing;  O'Rourke's  naked  hand  struck  up  his 
blade.  He  closed  with  Georges,  his  fingers  clutching  about 
the  prince's  throat  —  the  fingers  of  the  hand  belonging  to  the 
wounded  arm,  at  that.  With  incredible  dexterity  he  short- 
ened his  grip  of  the  rapier,  grasping  it  half  way  down  the 
blade,  using  it  after  the  fashion  of  a  poniard. 

And  what  was  mortal  of  Monsieur  ie  Prince,  Georges  de 
Liitzelburg  collapsed  upon  the  floor. 


[241] 


CHAPTER  V 

THE  OPEN  ROAD 

"YE  heard  what  he  said?  That  the  child  is  in  his  apart- 
ments in  the  castle?"  O'Rourke  asked  Chambret. 

The  three  men  —  Chambret,  Charles,  and  Bosquet,  the 
surgeon  —  were  kneeling  around  the  body  of  the  prince. 
That  man  dead,  his  plan  for  the  continuance  of  the  duel  was 
abandoned  by  mutual  consent.  Charles,  for  one,  was  ghastly, 
livid,  plainly  with  neither  heart  nor  stomach  for  another  fight. 

Chambret  looked  up  from  the  face  of  the  dying  man. 

"I  heard,"  he  said  grimly. 

O'Rourke  stood  above  him,  pulling  down  his  cuffs  com- 
posedly, and  holding  his  coat  and  hat  beneath  his  arm. 

"What  are  ye  going  to  do?"  demanded  Chambret. 

"Go  out  for  a  breath  of  air,  mon  ami"  replied  the  Irish- 
man. "I'll  carry  the  good  news  to  madame,  if  ye've  no 
objection." 

"Ah,  my  friend,  I  thank  you." 

"  Say  no  more  about  it,  me  boy." 

He  walked  steadily  to  the  door,  pulled  it  open,  after  un- 
bolting, and  stepped  out,  closing  it  behind  him.  The  duchess 
was  instantly  by  his  side,  her  hands  stretched  forth  in  an 
agony  of  supplication. 

"Mcnsieur,  monsieur  1"  she  cried.     "You  are  not  hurt?" 

"Not  a  word  for  Chambret!"  he  thought.  "I  must  get 
out  of  this,  and  quickly."  Aloud:  "Not  even  scratched," 
he  lied,  to  baffle  commiseration,  and  kept  his  arm  by  his  side. 

[242] 


TJie  Open  Road 

Though  he  felt  the  blood  trickling  down  within  his  sleeve,  a 
hot  stream,  yet  it  was  too  dark  for  the  woman  to  see. 

"Georges  is  —  dead,"  he  told  her,  shortly;  "and  ye'll  find 
your  son,  madame,  hidden  in  his  rooms  in  the  castle." 

"Thank  God!"  She  was  silent  for  a  moment.  "My 
little  son!"  she  said  softly.  ""Ah,  monsieur,  you  have  saved 
him  from  —  who  knows  what  ?  How  can  I  show  my  grati- 
tude?" 

"By  forgetting  the  O'Rourke,  madame,"  he  said  almost 
roughly. 

"What  do  you  mean?"  She  caught  him  by  the  sleeve  as 
he  turned  away.  "You  are  not  going,  monsieur?" 

"Instantly,  madame." 

"But  why  — why?" 

"Madame,  because  me  work  is  done  here.  Good  night, 
madame." 

"But,  monsieur,  monsieur!    Ah,  stay!" 

He  shook  his  arm  free,  with  no  effort  to  ameliorate  his 
rudeness. 

"  Good  night,  madame,"  he  repeated  stiffly,  with  his  heart 
in  his  throat;  and  was  off,  swinging  down  the  forest  path. 

He  had  not  taken  a  dozen  paces,  however,  before  she  had 
caught  up  with  him;  and  he  felt  her  arms  soft  and  dinging 
about  his  neck. 

"Ah,  monsieur,  monsieur!"  she  cried;  and  her  tone  thrilled 
the  ardent  man  through  every  fiber  of  him.  "You  have  not 
deceived  me  as  to  your  motive,  O  most  gallant  and  loyal 
gentleman!" 

She  drew  his  head  down,  though  he  resisted,  and  kissed 
him  once,  full  upon  the  lips.  Then,  wistfully,  "  Au  revoir, 
monsieur,"  she  said,  and  permitted  him  to  leave  her. 

For  the  second  time  that  night  he  dropped  upon  his  knee 

[243] 


and  carried  her  hand  to  his  lips.  When  he  arose,  it  was  with 
an  averted  face;  he  dared  not  look  again  upon  her. 

"Farewell,  madame,"  he  said  gently,  and  struck  off  briskly 
down  the  path.  Nor  did  he  pause  to  look  back. 

After  some  minutes  he  heard  the  voice  of  Chambret 
calling  his  name  out  frantically;  and  at  that  moment, 
discovering  a  by-path,  O'Rourke  took  it,  the  better  to  elude 
pursuit.  Presently,  coming  upon  a  purling  little  brook,  deep 
in  the  silent,  midnight  heart  of  the  forest,  he  sat  him  down 
upon  the  bank  and  there  washed  and  bandaged  his  wound 
after  a  fashion.  Then  rising,  he  strode  swiftly  on,  fagged 
with  weariness  and  sick  at  his  heart,  but  true  to  his  code  of 
honor;  and  to  hold  true  to  that,  it  seemed  most  essential  that 
he  should  leave  the  eyes  of  Madame  la  Grand  Duchesse  de 
Lutzelburg  far  behind  him. 

Late  in  the  night  he  emerged  from  the  forest  and  came 
upon  a  broad,  inviting  highroad,  along  which  he  settled  down 
into  a  steady,  league-consuming  stride;  and  the  continuous 
exercise  began  to  send  the  blood  tingling  through  his  veins, 
making  a  brighter  complexion  for  his  thoughts.  He  kept 
his  face  towards  the  East  —  the  mysterious  East  —  and 
covered  much  ground. 

It  was  a  wonderful  windy  night  of  stars,  bright,  clear,  bear- 
ing in  upon  the  receptive  mind  of  the  imaginative  Celt  a 
sense  of  the  vastness  of  the  world.  He  lifted  his  head,  sniff- 
ing eagerly  at  the  free  breezes,  himself  as  free,  and  like  the 
wind  a  vagrant,  penniless.  He  was  abroad  in  the  open, 
foot-loose,  homeless;  the  world  lay  wide  before  him,  it  seemed 
—  the  world  of  his  choice,  his  birthright  of  the  open  road. 
And  in  his  ears  the  Road  was  sounding  its  siren  Call  to  the 
Wanderer. 

And  so  he  struck  out,  at  first  eastwards,  but  later  verging 

[244] 


The  Open  Road 

towards  the  south,  his  mind  busied  with  thoughts  of  wars  and 
rumors  of  wars,  in  the  many-hued  land  south  and  east  of  the 
Mediterranean,  where  a  free  sword  was  respected,  where 
honor  and  advancements  and,  above  all,  real  fighting  were  to 
be  had  for  the  trouble  of  looking  them  up. 

His  thoughts  reverted  to  Chambret  and  what  talk  had 
passed  between  the  two  of  them,  back  in  the  Caf£  de  la  Paix 
in  Paris,  bearing  upon  Madame  la  Princesse,  Beatrix  de 
Grandlieu,  his  heart's  mistress.  And  because  the  events  of 
the  night  were  fresh  in  his  memory,  and  because  his  transient 
weakness  in  the  face  of  the  charms  of  the  Grande  Duchesse 
had  stirred  the  embers  of  his  deep  and  abiding  love  for  his 
princess,  his  mind  dwelt  upon  her  long  and  tenderly. 

For  a  time  it  seemed  as  though  she  were  with  him  in  the 
spirit,  during  that  long  night  walk,  and  that  her  lips  were 
comforting  him  with  words^of  cheer;  bidding  him  hope  and 
be  of  good  heart. 

And,  if  so,  he  reasoned,  it  must  mean  that  he  was  to  strike 
out  for  the  East  and  the  fortune  that  lay  waiting  for  him  to 
discover  it  —  at  the  rainbow's  end.  So  he  came  to  a  logical 
determination  to  follow  its  biddings,  to  dally  no  longer,  to 
strike  with  all  his  strength  for  honor  and  fortune  and  the 
right  to  wed  his  love. 

Danny,  he  understood,  was  in  Alexandria.  "And  'tis 
meself  that  misdoubts  but  that  he's  up  to  some  manner  of 
diwlemint  there,"  considered  O'Rourke.  '"Tis  me  duty  to 
look  him  up  and  attind  to  his  morals.  ...  I  have  neglicted 
the  la-ad  sadly:  I  have  so.  And  sure  and  there's  no  doubt 
at  all  but  that  he'll  be  glad  to  see  me !  .  .  .  Moreover,  Alex- 
andria's a  great  port.  'Twould  be  possible  to  take  ship 
from  there  for  almost  anywhere  on  the  face  of  the  earth 
—  including  Egypt." 

[245] 


He  nodded  sagaciously.  "Egypt!"  he  mused.  "'Tis 
a  fair  land  and  troublous.  I  feel  meself  strangely  drawn  to 
Egyptland,  where  there  is  like  to  be  much  fighting.  . . .  Now, 
let  us  consider  this  proposition  without  prejudice.  Whom 
would  I  be  knowing  in  Egypt  who'd  be  willing  to  give  me  a 
Sift  into  the  thick  of  a  shindy?" 


[246] 


THE  GODDESS  OF  EGYPTIAN  NIGHT 

IT  was  Danny  who  was  frowning  uneasily  over  the  rather  ex- 
tensive consignment  of  wearing  apparel  which  had  just  been 
delivered  to  Colonel  O'Rourke  upon  that  gentleman's  order. 

O'Rourke  himself  was  standing  with  his  hands  in  his  pock- 
ets, indifferently  whistling  the  while  he  gazed  out  of  the  win- 
dow of  his  room  in  Shepheard's  —  a  rather  inferior  r©om, 
giving  upon  the  hotel's  courtyard,  wherein  the  rays  of  the 
Egyptian  sun  struck  down  like  brickbats,  driving  all  living 
things  to  shelter,  with  the  exception  of  one  solitary  and  dis- 
consolate crane,  tame  and  depressed,  whose  shadow  lay  like 
a  pool  of  ink  upon  the  flags. 

The  adventurer  turned  impatiently  from  staring  at  the 
bird,  to  inquire  if  Danny  had  not  yet  bestirred  himself  to 
finish  the  unpacking  of  the  new  clothes,  which  their  owner 
desired  to  try  on.  The  master  caught  the  dubious  smile  on 
the  man's  lips,  and  the  whistling  stopped  short. 

Danny's  uneasiness  was  a  thing  apparent,  not  to  be  over- 
looked —  as  the  man  had  intended  it  should  be;  it  was  as 
near  as  he  dared  to  an  expression  of  disapproval  of  O'Rourke's 
judgment.  For  the  rest,  whatever  his  thoughts,  Danny  was 
keeping  them  to  himself,  with  his  tongue  between  his  teeth  — 
and  that  very  prudently. 

But,  as  for  O'Rourke,  a  difference  of  opinion,  even  be- 
tween master  and  man,  was  a  thing  to  be  settled  promptly; 
and  he  went  for  Danny,  speaking  straight  from  the  shoulder. 

[247] 


Terence  O'Rourke,  Gentleman  Adventurer 

"For  what  are  ye  standing  there  grinning,  like  the  red- 
headed gossoon  ye  are?"  he  cried.  "What's  on  your  mind 

—  if  ye've  the  impudence  to  boast  such  a  thing,  Danny?" 
"Sure,  now,  sor,"  protested  the  red-headed  one,  "I  was 

only  thinkin'  that  there  do  be  a  terrible  lot  of  thim  clothes. 
Wouldn't  they  be  costing  a  likely  pot  av  money,  now,  sor?" 

"True  for  ye,  Danny;  they  would,"  complacently  made 
answer  O'Rourke,  admiring  in  his  mirror  the  effect  of  a  new 
white  pith  helmet  with  several  yards  of  beautiful  green  mos- 
quito netting  patriotically  draped  around  and  hanging  down 
the  back  of  it. 

"That  is,"  he  amended,  putting  it  aside  in  order  to  assume 
a  fresh  suit  of  immaculate  white  duck,  "they  would  be  ex- 
pensive if  me  tailor's  name  did  not  happen  to  be  O'Flaherty 

—  a  friend  of  me  own,  and,  be  that  same  token,  glad  of  the 
chance  to  extend  long  credit  to  any  son  of  the  old  country. 
Besides," he  concluded,  "what  business  is  that  of  yours?" 

O'Rourke  sat  him  down  on  the  edge  of  the  bed  and  rammed 
his  long  legs  into  the  trousers  of  a  new  suit  of  evening  clothes; 
then  he  stood  up  and  took  joy  because  of  their  impeccable 
set,  and  the  crease  down  the  center  of  each  leg  as  sharp  as 
though  it  were  sewn  in  place. 

"Besides — "  he  added.  "Hand  me  those  suspenders, 
ye  omadhaun,  and  don't  stand  staring  as  if  ye  never  before 
saw  dacint  clothes  on  the  back  of  a  handsome  man  like  me- 
self!  Besides,  who's  worrying  about  money?" 

Danny  hastened  to  disclaim  any  such  reprehensible 
anxiety;  but  O'Rourke  cut  sharply  into  the  man's  excuses. 
"Danny,"  he  asked  severely,  "now,  how  much  was  there  in 
the  treasury  when  we  left  Alexandria?" 

"Wan  hoondred  an*  foive  pounds,"  without  hesitation  re- 
plied Daniel.  "An'  —  an', askin'  yer  honor's  pardo:a,  sor — " 

[248] 


The  Goddess  of  Egyptian  Night 

"  Go  on !    Out  with  it,  man ! " 

"How  long  will  that  be  lastin',  what  with  livin'  six  wakes 
at  the  foinest  hotel  in  Cairo,  yer  honor,  sor,  an'  two  such 
batches  av  clothes  already,  sor?" 

"Danny,"  said  O'Rourke,  "ye  weary  me  inexpressibly. 
Give  me  the  white  trousies  yonder,  and  likewise  the  old  ones." 

O'Rourke  took  his  discarded  trousers,  ran  his  hand  into 
the  pockets,  and  produced,  first  a  handful  of  gold  and  baser 
coin,  which  contemptuously  he  threw  upon  the  bedspread, 
in  turn  exhibiting  to  Danny's  astonished  eyes  an  impressive 
roll  of  Bank  of  England  notes. 

"There!"  complacently  he  exclaimed.  "And  what  will 
ye  find  to  say  to  that,  now,  I  wonder?" 

With  his  master's  good  humor,  Danny's  confidence  re- 
turned; he  grew  emboldened,  eying  the  money  wistfully. 
"Not  much  to  say,"  he  conceded,  "while  ye're  lookin',  sor. 
But  if  yer  honor  will  turn  yer  back  for  the  laste  parrt  av  a 
momint,  'tis  meself  that'll  endeavor  to  hold  converse  wid 
th'  roll." 

"Umm,"  agreed  O'Rourke.  "I  misdoubt  ye've  told  the 
truth  for  the  first  time  in  your  life,  Danny." 

Composedly  he  arrayed  himself  in  the  white  duck  suit, 
choosing  and  arranging  his  cravat  with  exquisite  care.  Pres- 
ently he  was  satisfied.  He  turned  and  took  possession  of 
the  scattered  money,  at  the  last  moment  flipping  a  sovereign 
to  his  servant. 

"Take  that,"  he  said.  "Be  thankful,  do  not  get  immod- 
erately drunk,  and  learn  to  trust  your  fortunes  to  the 
O'Rourke." 

"But,  sor,"  gasped  the  man,  bewildered,  "an'  how  did  ye 
come  by  it  all,  sor,  manin'  no  onrespect  to  yer  honor?" 

O'Rourke  smiled  retrospectively.    "The  Italian  gentleman 


who  banks  for  the  miniature  Monte  Carlo  downstairs 
gave  it  to  me  last  night,"  he  returned,  "as  a  tribute  to  me 
skill  in  picking  the  numbers  on  the  wheel  of  fortune.  He's 
hoping  to  see  more  of  me." 

"An*  win  ye  be  tryin'  the  roulette  again,  sor?" 

"Div vie  a  bit,"  proclaimed  O'Rourke  impatiently.  "Did 
I  not  tell  ye  to  trust  your  fortunes  with  the  O'Rourke,  just 
now?  Faith,  for  why  should  I  be  taking  all  this  back  to  the 
man  when  I  need  it  meself,  ye  lazy  scut?  Hand  me  me 
helmet;  the  O'Rourke  is  going  to  give  the  fair  Cairenes  a 
treat,  Danny." 

A  moment  later,  when  he  stepped  out  upon  the  terrace  in 
front  of  Shepheard's,  his  distinguished  appearance  caused  a 
youthful  American  to  point  him  out  to  his  companions. 
"That's  Donahue  Pasha,"  he  said;  "the  man  who  escaped 
from  Omdurman  — " 

But  O'Rourke  did  not  hear  the  misstatement.  He  stood 
for  a  moment,  casting  about  with  his  keen  eyes  as  though  for 
some  friend  in  the  throng  about  the  tables.  Apparently  he 
did  not  find  whom  he  sought. 

"She's  not  here  to-day,"  he  admitted  at  length,  reluc- 
tantly, walking  to  the  edge  of  the  terrace  and  seating  himself 
at  One  of  the  tables  overlooking  the  street.  "Faith,"  he  con- 
tinued, with  an  inward  grin,  "if  she  only  knew  what  she  was 
missing,  now  — ! " 

He  lit  a  cigar  and  sat  puffing,  looking  out  over  the  brilliant 
passing  parade;  as  he  watched,  the  tenor  of  his  thoughts 
caused  his  eyes  to  lose  their  humorous  light,  and  he  began  to 
chew  nervously  at  the  end  of  the  cigar  —  in  O'Rourke  a  sign 
that  the  man's  mind  was  not  at  rest. 

"Something  must  happen,  before  long,"  he  was  thinking. 
"Faith,  'tis  impossible  that  things  should  go  on  this  way,  or 


The  Goddess  of  Egyptian  Night 

me  friend  Satan  will  be  cooking  up  some  mischief  for  me  idk 
hands  —  that's  fair  warning  for  ye,  O'Rourke! ...  I  can't," 
he  went  on,  "  keep  hitting  the  wheel.  Tis  meself  that  has  a 
presintiment  that  me  luck's  about  to  change;  and,  sure,  I've 
been  phenomenally  fortunate  these  last  few  weeks.  I  can't 
sit  forever  waiting  for  Doone  Pasha  to  find  me  a  place  in  the 
Khedival  army.  And  'tis  against  nature  that  I  should  be 
under  the  fire  of  madame's  eyes  much  longer  without  taking 
me  fate  in  me  hands  and  —  raising  trouble  for  meself. 

"For  the  matter  of  that,"  he  concluded,  "'tis  time  I  was 
on  the  wing.  Me  nest  gets  uncomfortable  if  I  rest  in  it  over- 
long.  I've  been  here  three  weeks  be  the  clock.  Can  I  stand 
it  much  longer?" 

A  burst  of  laughter  from  a  party  at  a  neighboring  table 
changed  the  current  of  his  meditations. 

"There's  gaiety  for  ye!"  he  commented.  "What  does  all 
this  mean,  can  ye  tell  me?  When  has  Shepheard's  been  so 
crowded  in  the  middle  of  the  hot  months,  as  now  ?  For  why 
is  everybody  lingering  in  Cairo,  if  'tis  not  for  to  see  something 
drop?  I  wonder,  now,  if  there's  diplomatic  troubles  in  the 
air?  Will  France  and  Turkey  be  making  a  little  rough- 
house  for  England  presently?  Is  that  it?  I've  heard  no 
wrord  to  that  effect  —  nor  to  the  contrary,  for  that  matter. 
Is  there  to  be  a  war,  and  meself  not  invited?" 

He  turned  to  survey  the  crowd  with  a  speculative  eye. 
But  no,  he  concluded;  it  seemed  no  more  than  the  usual 
gathering  of  Shepheard's  guests  —  the  ordinary  aggregation 
of  tourists,  with  a  sprinkling  of  residents  and  native  Egyp- 
tians, and  a  fair  leavening  of  red-faced,  pompous  young  sub- 
alterns of  the  Army  of  Occupation. 

It  was  the  fag  end  of  an  afternoon,  painfully  hot.  Above 
O'Rourke's  head  a  palm  was  stirring  languidly  in  the  least 


Terence  O'Rourke,  Gentleman  Adventurer 

suspicion  of  a  breeze  that  made  life  endurable  on  Shepheard's 
terrace.  But  in  the  street  beyond  only  the  camels  seemed 
at  ease. 

At  this  season  of  the  year  Cairo  is  generally  deserted  by 
every  soul  who  can  get  away  —  at  least  as  far  as  to  Alexan- 
dria, where  the  Mediterranean  breezes  are  to  be  counted  upon 
to  temper  the  summer  heat. 

But  still,  the  facts  were  undeniable;  within  his  memory, 
O'Rourke  had  never  seen  the  place  so  animated,  even  at  the 
height  of  the  winter  tourist  season,  as  now  it  was. 

He  swung  around  again  to  his  cigar  and  his  sherbet, 
shaking  his  head  in  wonderment.  "Something's  afoot,"  he 
muttered,  "and  the  O'Rourke's  an  outsider!" 

A  bit  later  a  carriage  dashed  up  to  the  front  of  the  hotel  — 
a  very  handsome  landau,  evidently  fresh  from  the  afternoon 
parade  on  the  Gizereh  Drive. 

As  it  stopped  almost  directly  opposite  O'Rourke,  the  man 
stiffened  to  a  rigidity  almost  military  —  head  up,  shoulders 
back,  eyes  straight  in  front  of  him,  and  apparently  seeing 
nothing  at  all.  At  the  same  time  a  slow  flush  mounted 
his  lean,  brown  cheeks,  till  he  had  colored  to  the  eyes. 

"I  will  not  look  at  her!"  he  was  saying  over  and  over  to 
himself.  "I  will  not  look — 'tis  as  much  as  me  soul  is 
worth!" 

Nevertheless,  look  he  did — as  though,  in  fact,  his  gaze  was 
drawn  whether  he  would  or  no. 

A  woman  was  alighting  from  the  carriage  —  undoubtedly 
a  very  wonderful  woman,  worthy  to  rouse  even  the  O'Rourke 
to  an  appreciation  of  her  loveliness  —  O'Rourke,  who  had 
seen  many  beautiful  women  in  his  time,  and  found  them  all 
good  to  look  upon. 

She  was,  for  one  thing,  exquisitely  gowned,  although  that 

[252] 


The  Goddess  of  Egyptian  Night 

was  no  more  than  in  keeping  with  her  superb  grace  of  car- 
riage; and  though  it  all  was  forgotten  when  one  —  especially 
such  an  impressionable  one  as  O'Rourke  —  looked  upon 
her  face. 

She  was  very  pale  and  very  dark.  "A  goddess  of  Egyp- 
tian night,"  the  Irishman  had  lightly  termed  her,  at  first 
sight.  Her  hair  was  of  the  blackness  of  jet,  and  of  its  high 
luster.  And  as  for  her  eyes,  to  O'Rourke  they  were  like 
nothing  in  the  world  but  the  soft,  warm  depths  of  the  star- 
strewn  Mediterranean  —  infinitely  beautiful,  infinitely  dark, 
infinitely  tempting.  They  drew  his  gaze  as  with  a  magnetic 
attraction;  he  looked,  looked  deep,  and  for  the  moment 
forgot  —  forgot  Cairo,  Shepheard's,  Egypt  —  forgot  even 
another  woman  beyond  the  seas  to  whom  his  troth  was 
plighted,  for  whom  he  wandered  in  strange  lands  seeking 
his  fugitive  fortunes. 

And  then,  in  a  moment,  she  was  looking  away,  with  her 
chin  held  a  trifle  higher,  a  bit  more  disdainfully  than  her 
wont,  and,  as  she  swept  up  the  steps  to  the  terrace,  O'Rourke 
told  himself  that  she  colored  faintly  under  her  wonderful 
pallor  —  though,  he  admitted  fairly,  it  might  have  been  his 
own  conceit  that  made  him  so  fancy. 

There  followed  her  a  man  —  a  tall,  clean-limbed  young 
Egyptian,  wearing  the  clothes  of  modern  civilization  and  the 
inevitable  tarboosh,  bearing  himself  with  some  distinction 
of  manner.  But  him  O'Rourke  honored  with  scarcely  a 
glance.  He  was  thinking  only  of  the  marvelous  beauty  of 
the  woman,  and,  "Faith,"  he  pondered,  sighing,  "there's  the 
excuse  for  me,  now!" 

But  who  was  she?  The  problem  tormented  the  man;  nor 
could  all  his  inquiries  about  the  hotel  gain  him  an  answer. 
Liberal  bakshish  distributed  among  the  servants  told  him 

[233] 


Terence  O'Rourke,  Gentleman  Adventurer 

no  more  than  already  he  knew  —  that  she  was  accustomed 
to  come  to  Shepheard's  every  evening,  to  dine  there  in  the 
company  of  her  Egyptian  escort.  Who  either  happened  to 
be  and  whence  they  came,  was  a  mystery  apparently  unsolv- 
able. 

For  his  own  part,  O'Rourke  was  now  determined  that  the 
mystery  should  be  probed.  Hitherto  he  had  hesitated; 
though  always  her  eyes  had  sought  his,  and  though  always 
in  their  depth  he  had  read  something  —  an  interest,  a  faint 
recognition  —  never  until  this  day  had  she  so  compelled  his 
gaze  to  hers,  so  given  him  a  glimpse  of  her  own  soul  through 
its  windows. 

"Sure,"  swore  the  Irishman,  "'tis  more  than  mortal  man 
can  stand  —  'tis  beyond  endurance,  beyond  the  limits  of 
dacint  flirtation  —  that  look  she  gave  me.  I'll  know  her 
before  another  sun  sets!" 

To-day's  was  setting  now;  presently  it  would  be  night. 
O'Rourke  bowed  his  head  over  his  meditative  cigar,  deliber- 
ating ways  and  means  to  reach  his  end.  The  life  on  Shep- 
heard's terrace  quickened  with  the  promise  of  the  night's 
coolness;  in  the  street  the  traffic  moved  at  a  more  lively  pace. 
And,  presently,  out  of  the  gathering  gloom,  with  a  skirling  of 
bagpipes  and  the  clatter  of  side-arms,  came  marching  a  regi- 
ment of  anomalies  —  kilted  Scotchmen,  bare  knees  moving 
to  and  fro  in  rhythmic  regularity,  in  Egypt !  —  the  Cameron 
Highlanders  of  the  Army  of  Occupation. 


CHAPTER  VH 

THE  RUSS  INCOGNITO 

THE  shadows  lengthened;  from  the  minarets  of  Cairo's 
mosques  muezzins'  calls  to  prayers  rang  out.  O'Rourke, 
absorbed  in  musings,  hardly  heard  them;  and,  indeed,  so 
detached  from  his  surroundings  was  he  that  a  man  sat  him- 
self down  in  the  chair  opposite  O'Rourke's  elbow  and 
spoke  twice  before  he  roused  him. 

"Pardon,"  he  said,  in  French;  "Colonel  O'Rourke,  I 
believe?" 

The  Irishman  came  out  of  his  abstraction  with  a  start. 

" Eh,  I  beg  pardon?"  he  said.  "I  am  Colonel  O'Rourke," 
he  admitted,  after  a  careful  scrutiny  of  the  other's  features, 
which  were  barely  distinguishable  in  the  fading  light.  "But 
monsieur  has  the  advantage  of  me." 

"Then,  monsieur,  I  count  myself  fortunate,"  rejoined  the 
stranger,  with  a  careless  laugh.  "It  is  a  brave  man  who 
gains  an  advantage  over  Colonel  Terence  O'Rourke." 

He  paused;  but  O'Rourke,  with  characteristic  caution,  was 
waiting  for  him  to  declare  himself.  In  the  meantime  he  con- 
tinued his  search  of  the  stranger's  lineaments,  trying  to  dis- 
cover therein  some  familiar  feature.  He  saw  a  man  of  a 
distinguished  type,  in  evening  dress ;  with  a  high,  pale  fore- 
head, rather  narrow;  eyes  close  set  to  the  bridge  of  an  aqui- 
line nose;  a  pointed  beard,  exactly  trimmed,  and  a  mustache 
with  upcurled  tips,  beneath  which  his  lips  showed  rather  full 
and  red,  of  a  cruel  and  sensual  modeling. 

[2553 


Terence  O'Rourke,  Gentleman  Adventurer 

"Never  saw  him  in  my  life,"  declared  O'Rourke  to  him- 
self, watching  the  tip  of  the  newcomer's  cigarette  alternately 
redden  and  pale  as  the  man  applied  himself  to  it. 

"You  don't  know  me?"  the  Irishman  heard  him  ask  at 
last,  with  the  same  careless,  self-satisfied  chuckle. 

"I  confess  — "  O'Rourke  bowed  distantly. 

"My  card."  He  pushed  a  slip  of  pasteboard  across  the 
table;  O'Rourke  took  it  and  struck  a  match,  which  he  first 
applied  to  the  end  of  his  cigar  ere  holding  the  card  to  the  light. 
He  read,  in  fine  script: 

"M.  Nicolas  Kozakevitch, 

"St.  Petersburg." 

Below  which,  in  pencil,  and  hastily,  had  been  scribbled 
half  a  dozen  words:  "Prince  Vladislaus  Viazma  —  incognito, 
if  you  please,  man  ami." 

"Yourself!"  cried  O'Rourke. 

He  put  down  the  card;  the  man  stretched  forth  his  hand, 
took  it  up,  and  tore  it  into  many  infinitesimal  fragments, 
keeping  his  dark  eyes  steadily  to  O'Rourke's. 

"Myself,"  he  admitted. 

"But  —  but,  Monsieur  le  Pri — "  began  O'Rourke. 

"S-sh!" 

The  warning  made  the  Irishman  remember.  "Oh,  I  beg 
pardon,"  he  said,  sitting  back  in  his  chair;  then,  "Well,  I'm 
damned!"  he  announced.  And,  in  a  lower  tone:  "Faith,  'tis 
your  beard,  Monsieur  Kozakevitch;  it  befooled  me  utterly." 

"That  is  as  it  should  be,"  returned  the  Russian,  "when 
one  travels  incognito." 

O'Rourke  sucked  strongly  at  his  cigar,  watching  the 
smoke  drift  lazily  upwards.  "Ay!"  he  said  aloud,  but  as 

[256! 


The  Russ  Incognito 

though  to  himself;  "I  was  sure  of  it;  'twas  in  the  air,  and 
Ismelledit!" 

"What,  may  I  ask,  monsieur?" 

"Trouble,"  said  the  Irishman  sententiously. 

The  Russian  chuckled  more  grimly  than  before.  He 
tossed  his  cigarette  out  into  the  street  ere  replying. 

"Am  I,  then,  a  bird  of  ill-omen?" 

"Ye  are  a  diplomatist,"  returned  O'Rourke  cautiously. 

The  prince  laughed  again.  He  leaned  forward,  selecting 
another  cigarette  from  a  jeweled  case-  "And  if  so?"  he 
asked  guardedly.  "And  if,  mon  ami,  it  does  mean  —  war?" 
He  raised  a  cautioning  finger.  "Remember,"  he  warned 
O'Rourke,  "I  speak  in  confidence." 

"Surely,  monsieur."  The  Irishman  met  his  gaze  directly 
until  the  other  was  fain  to  veil  his  eyes  with  their  heavy  lids. 

"And  if,"  he  repeated  softly,  "it  does  mean  —  shall  we 
call  it  a  diplomatic  crisis,  monsieur?" 

"Ye  may,  for  all  of  me,"  permitted  O'Rourke  graciously. 
If  he  had  any  great  respect  for  this  man  personally,  he  was 
not  then  showing  it. 

"Well,"  continued  the  Russian  impatiently,  "if  this  is  so, 
what  do  you  think?" 

"Eh-yah!"  yawned  the  Irishman.  "I'm  thinking  that  it 
all  depends  upon  the  outcome,  what  me  opinion  is  to  be. 
And  now  tell  me,  since  ye  are  inclined  to  be  so  confidential, 
what  is  it  all  about?" 

The  prince  bent  his  head  to  light  his  cigarette;  the  flame 
flared  brightly,  outlining  his  finely  carven  features;  in  par- 
ticular, O'Rourke  was  impressed  by  the  heavy  brows  of  the 
man  —  a  straight,  black  mark  without  break  from  temple 
to  temple,  giving  to  his  face  a  somewhat  sinister  expression. 

"Suppose,"  said  the  prince,  glancing  swiftly  around  ta 

[257] 


Terence  O'Rourke,  Gentleman  Adventurer 

reassure  himself  that  the  immediately  adjacent  tables  were 
still  unoccupied,  and  no  listeners  were  nigh,  "that  two  of  the 
Powers  are  dissatisfied  with  affairs  Egyptian  —  or,  say, 
three?" 

u  Faith,  'twould  not  be  difficult  to  name  them." 

"Yes?" 

"France,"  said  the  Irishman,  "Russia,  Egypt.  Have  I 
guessed  rightly?" 

"You  are  very  discerning,  monsieur." 

' '  Am  I  so  ?  Thank  ye.  Let  us  proceed  with  your  supposi- 
tion." 

"  Suppose,  then,  that  the  three  powers  were  to  unite  to  drive 
the  English  out  of  Egypt.  Eh  ?  What  do  you  think,  mon  ami  ? ' ' 

"Faith,"  laughed  O'Rourke,  his  eyes  brightening  at  the 
prospect,  "I  think  there  would  be  a  most  hell  of  a  row  —  if 
ye  desire  me  candid  opinion." 

"Yes,  yes,"  returned  the  prince  patiently;  "but  as  to  the 
outcome  ?  " 

"That  is  on  the  knees  of  the  gods,  Monsieur  Nicolas  Koz- 
and-so-forth." 

"But  in  event  of  triumph  for  the  three  powers,  monsieur, 
would  it  not  be  well  with  the  man  who  fights  with  Egypt? 
In  event  of  a  new  Dual  Control,  monsieur,  would  not  the 
head  of  the  Egyptian  Army  stand  high  in  the  favor  of  two 
world  powers?" 

"In  that  event  —  yes,  'tis  likely  he  would.  But,  come, 
mon  ami"  —  O'Rourke  swung  around  in  his  chair  and  faced 
the  man  squarely — "ye've  not  told  me  all  this  without  you-r 
purpose.  And  that  is — ?" 

The  Russian  carefully  flicked  the  ash  from  the  end  of  his 
cigarette.  He  took  his  time  about  replying;  and  when  he  did 
so,  framed  his  thought  in  wary  phrases. 

[258] 


The  Russ  Incognito 

"A  skilful,  efficient  soldier  is  what  the  Khedive  most 
needs,"  he  announced  slowly;  "a  man  afraid  of  nothing  — 
afraid  not  even  of  England  —  a  soldier  and  a  strategist  to 
lead  Egypt's  armies  to  victory.  Well,  if  His  Majesty  the 
Khedive's  disinterested  and  loyal  advisers  suggest  the  proper 
man,  it  will  be  almost  equivalent  to  an  appointment." 

' '  And  —  ?    Proceed,  monsieur. ' ' 

"May  I  venture  to  suggest  that  a  certain  Colonel  Terence 
O'Rourke  fills  all  the  qualifications?" 

"Ye  do  me  great  honor,  monsieur." 

For  some  minutes  there  was  silence  between  the  two. 
O'Rourke  sat  quietly  smoking,  his  mind  in  a  turmoil  of 
thought;  he  saw  a  fair  and  newly  prosperous  country  running 
with  blood  —  as  once  India  had  run  with  blood,  long  years 
since.  He  saw  brave  men  and  true  knifed,  assassinated, 
stabbed  in  the  back,  that  their  places  might  be  filled  with 
others,  their  equals  neither  in  morals  nor  in  courage. 

He  saw  —  a  number  of  things;  and  abruptly  his  mind  was 
made  up.  He  rose  and  bowed. 

"It  has  been  a  very  pleasant  chat,  monsieur,"  he  said 
courteously.  "Good  night." 

The  prince  got  to  his  feet  with  a  jerk,  his  eyes  narrowing. 
"You  are  staying  here?"  he  said.  "Doubtless  I  shall  have 
the  pleasure  of  seeing  you  to-morrow." 

"Unfortunately,"  O'Rourke  told  him,  "I  am  leaving  Cairo 
at  daybreak." 

He  turned  away,  but  the  Russian's  voice  gave  him  pause. 
"I  am  to  understand,"  said  the  prince,  "that  you  refuse?" 

"  I  can  refuse  nothing  that  has  not  been  offered  to  me,  mon- 
sieur." 

"Be  pleased,  monsieur,  to  consider  an  offer  made,"  sug- 
gested the  diplomat  silkily. 

[259] 


"Then,  in  that  event,"  drawled  O'Rourke,  "and  what- 
ever it  is,  consider  it  refused,  sans  thanks,  monsieur." 

He  started  toward  the  hotel  again;  when  a  small,  delicate 
yet  heavy  hand  upon  his  sleeve  constrained  him  to  further 
attention. 

"Let  me  suggest  that  you  think  twice." 

"I  have  thought  once,  and  that  is  sufficient."  O'Rourke 
shook  the  hand  from  his  arm  roughly.  "  Let  me  tell  ye,  mon- 
sieur, me  final  word  on  the  subject:  I  fight  only  for  men  who 
wear  their  shirts  inside  their  trousers." 

And  still  the  diplomat  restrained  his  rising  anger. 

"We  will  forget  that  —  a  childish  quibble,"  he  purred. 
"Think  twice,  monsieur,  think  twice!  Remember,  you 
Irish  have  no  reason  to  love  England." 

"And  damned  little  to  fight  her!  We  people  of  the  Em- 
pire may  have  our  private  differences  of  opinion,  but  when 
it  comes  to  outside  interference,  'tis  shoulder  to  shoulder  we 
stand.  Remember  that.  Remember  also  that,  while  me 
sword  is  for  hire  —  and  the  more  shame  to  me!  —  never  yet 
has  it  been  drawn  in  an  evil  cause.  At  least,  it  has  fought 
for  the  right,  Monsieur  the  Diplomatist.  And  that  is  the 
final  word.  I  bid  ye  good  evening." 

This  time  there  was  no  detaining  him;  the  Russian  recog- 
nized the  fact,  and  had  but  one  parting  shot  for  O'Rourke. 

"You  will  keep  silence,"  he  said. 

O'Rourke  halted  and  turned.  "It  is  a  matter  of  honor," 
he  replied  stiffly. 

The  prince  laughed.  "I  did  not  ask,  monsieur;  I  stated 
the  fact  —  yon  will  keep  silence." 

And  O'Rourke  went  on  to  his  room,  pondering  the 
hidden  menace  in  the  man's  tone,  and,  "Danny,"  he  told 
his  man,  "lay  out  me  evening  clothes;  and,  whilst  I'm 

[260] 


The  Russ  Incognito 

dining,  pack  our  trunks.    We  leave  for  Port  Said  in  the 
morning." 

Danny's  eyes  shone  with  delight.  "Sure,  now,  'tis  the 
good  word  for  ears  weary  wid  listenin',"  he  said;  and  got 
him  to  work  immediately. 


[261] 


CHAPTER  VTII 

THE  WORDS  OF  DELILAH 

O'ROURKE  dined  alone.  It  was  his  custom,  for  his  few 
friends  in  Cairo  were,  for  the  most  part,  out  of  town  at  the 
time.  And  yet,  somehow,  this  evening  he  was  resenting  his 
loneliness,  finding  it  depressive. 

To  his  extreme  disgust,  too,  he  discovered  that  his  interview 
with  Prince  Viazma  had  been  of  such  length  that,  by  the 
time  he  was  suitably  dressed  for  dining,  his  goddess  of  the 
Egyptian  night  had  taken  her  departure;  he  was  therefore 
deprived  of  what  would  have  been  some  consolation  to  him 
in  his  gloom  —  the  interchange  of  glances,  stealthy  and 
sweet,  that  had  been  theirs  on  other  nights,  lending  a  glamour 
to  all  the  evening  for  O'Rourke. 

He  grumbled,  eating  slowly  and  considering. 

"There's  one  thing  certain,"  he  told  himself.  "Tis  no 
place  for  the  O'Rourke  any  more  —  Cairo.  'Tis  very  likely 
to  become  unhealthy  to  a  person  of  me  excitable  disposition. 
I  know  too  much,  and  there  are  entirely  too  many  thugs  in 
the  city  streets  —  Greeks  and  Armenians,  for  instance  — 
that'd  think  of  sticking  a  knife  in  me  back  as  soon  as  they'd 
think  of  taking  pay  for  the  pleasure  av  doing  it. 

"Small  wonder,"  he  mused  again,  later,  "that  me  friend, 
Doone  Pasha,  has  been  unable  to  get  me  a  billet  in  the  Khe- 
dival  army!  Oho!  sure,  'tis  like  a  searchlight  on  a  dark 
night  —  this  little  proposal  of  me  prince  incognito.  I  begin 
to  see  various  things.  And  the  first  and  foremost  av  them 

[262] 


The  Words  of  Delilah 

is  to  stay  quiet-like  here  in  the  hotel,  I'm  thinking,  until 
Aurora's  rosy  fingers  paint  the  dawn,  and  meself  is  on  the 
train  to  Port  Said.  Faith,  but  'tis  meself  that  despises  a 
Russian!" 

He  was,  indeed,  inclined  to  caution.  If  he  remained  at 
Shepheard's,  without  doubt  he  would  keep  himself  within 
the  bounds  of  safety.  But  if  he  chose  to  wander  in  the 
streets  —  well,  there  would  undeniably  be  danger. 

"And  the  worst  of  it  is,"  he  rebelled,  "that  'tis  all  for  a 
scruple.  For  why  should  I  respect  the  man's  confidence, 
when  he  forces  it  upon  me?" 

Honor  is  a  subtle  thing,  of  much  seeming  inconsistency  at 
times;  now  it  was  keeping  the  man's  lips  sealed  when  he  had 
cause  to  speak  —  grave  cause,  in  point  of  fact. 

But  for  his  own  skin  he  held  such  a  profound  respect  that 
he  found  comfort  in  the  weight  of  the  revolver  that  was  sag- 
ging his  evening  coat  out  of  shape.  There  was  little  likeli- 
hood that  he  would  be  called  upon  to  use  it,  in  Shepheard's; 
and  yet,  your  Russian  is  a  strange  man,  with  kinks  in  his 
brain  that  move  his  feet  into  devious  ways,  beyond  the 
understanding  of  men  who  fight  in  the  open.  O'Rourke 
was  taking  no  chances. 

He  spent  the  best  part  of  the  evening  miserably  enough; 
the  music  of  the  orchestra  tired  him;  he  strolled  into  the  gam- 
ing rooms,  but  the  rattle  of  coin  and  the  whirring  and  the 
click  of  the  roulette  wheel  had  no  fascination  for  the  born 
gambler,  that  night;  his  brain  teemed  with  other  thoughts 
of  a  more  absorbing  interest. 

Barring  companionship  of  one  of  his  own  kind  —  which 
he  craved  —  the  next  best  thing  seemed  a  solitude  absolute. 
He  paused  in  a  doorway  leading  to  the  terrace. 

Out  there  he  might  find  what  he  desired;  it  was  cool  enough 
[263! 


Terence  O'Rourke,  Gentleman  Adventurer 

• — for  the  night  breeze  from  off  the  desert  held  a  nipping 
quality  at  times — to  keep  the  tables  from  being  crowded;  at 
the  same  time,  there  were  enough  loitering  guests  and  a  suffi- 
ciency of  light  to  insure  against  a  stealthy  attack. 

O'Rourke  ordered  a  drink  and  sought  a  secluded  table, 
which  he  discovered  in  the  shadow  of  a  palm.  Here  he  sat 
him  down  to  soothe  his  soul  with  a  smoke.  Hardly  had  he 
settled  comfortably,  however,  ere  he  had  cause  to  regret  his 
choice. 

The  night  was  yet  young:  as  much  as  to  say  that  it  wanted 
little  of  midnight.  But  Cairo  was  alive;  and  momentarily 
carriages  were  driving  up  in  front  of  the  hotel,  bearing  re- 
turning pleasure  seekers  or  taking  guests  to  their  homes. 

From  one  presently  alighted  a  man  and  a  woman. 
O'Rourke,  deep  in  thought  of  the  Russian  plot,  gave  them  a 
transient  inspection,  noted  something  familiar  in  their  aspect, 
and  paid  them  no  more  attention  until  they  took  possession 
of  the  table  immediately  adjoining  his  own. 

Thereupon,  "Oh,  the  divvle!"  exclaimed  the  Irishman. 
"Must  I  move  to  escape  their  infernal  chatter?  Faith,  'tis 
meself  that  may  as  well  get  me  to  bed." 

He  would  have  done  wisely  had  he  acted  upon  the  impulse. 
Instead,  the  man  lingered,  reluctant  to  abandon  his  smoke; 
and  a  ray  of  light,  sifting  through  the  fronds  of  a  waving 
palm,  fell  full  upon  the  face  of  the  woman. 

The  Irishman  gripped  the  edges  of  his  chair  suddenly, 
feeling  the  blood  hammering  madly  through  his  pulses.  "  Me 
goddess!"  he  said,  under  his  breath.  "Faith,  but  the  beauty 
of  her,  each  time,  is  like  a  blow  in  me  face!" 

For  it  was  his  divinity  of  the  Egyptian  night ;  and  she  was 
staring  at  him,  frankly  and  without  reserve,  for  the  moment. 

"Can  it  be  that  she  knows  me?"  he  asked  himself.  "Sure, 

[264! 


The  Words  of  Delilah 

were  she  less  beautiful  her  look  would  be  bold,  O'Rourke, 
me  boy!  Does  she  know  who  she's  looking  at?  Dare  I  be- 
lieve that?" 

Abruptly  she  turned  and  said  a  low  word  or  two  to  her 
companion.  With  a  murmured  reply,  he  rose  —  the  tall 
Egyptian  —  and  left  her,  passing  on  into  the  hotel. 

"Faith,"  commented  O'Rourke,  "'twas  a  queer  move  to 
make."  And  he  bent  forward,  feasting  his  eyes  with  her 
surpassing  loveliness  —  more  entrancing  now  than  ever, 
when  the  soft,  warm  shadows  of  the  night  were  a  background 
to  hair  and  eyes  that  seemed  a  part  of  that  same  night. 

And  suddenly  it  was  plain  to  him  that  she  was  again  re- 
garding him,  and  again,  with  what  he  dared  believe  was  no 
disfavor. 

"No,"  he  told  himself  stubbornly.  "Tis  a  fool  ye  are, 
O'Rourke,  with  your  self-conceit!  For  what  would  she  be 
lowering  herself  to  speak  with  ye,  penniless  vagabond  that 
ye  are?" 

And  yet  it  was  very  true  that  she  had  spoken;  for,  upon  the 
repetition  of  her  address,  the  man  could  not  deny  the  evi- 
dence of  his  hearing. 

"Monsieur  the  Colonel  O'Rourke,  is  it  not?"  she  was 
saying  —  but  rather  timidly,  as  though  she  either  feared  the 
consequences  of  her  act  because  of  the  audacity  of  the  man, 
or  was  apprehensive  of  being  overheard. 

"Madame!"  cried  the  Irishman  rising.  "Is  it  indeed 
meself  that  ye  mean?" 

He  stood  hesitant;  truly,  the  man's  awe  of  her  was  no 
pretense;  O'Rourke's  life  —  or  a  fair  part  of  it — had 
been  spent  on  his  knees  in  worship  of  beauty  such  as  was 
hers. 

"If  you  are  really  Colonel  O'Rourke?" 

[265] 


"I  am  that,"  he  declared.  "And  at  your  service,  ma- 
dame." 

She  leaned  easily  back  in  her  chair,  but  with  a  swift,  fright- 
ened look  around  the  terrace.  It  seemed  that  they  were 
unremarked;  the  others  who  lingered  thereabouts  were  pre- 
occupied with  their  own  affairs.  And  the  fact  encouraged 
her. 

She  faced  him  again,  joining  her  hands  before  her  on  the 
table;  and  O'Rourke  could  see  that  she  was  trembling  as  with 
an  excess  of  emotion  —  with  fear,  perhaps,  or  with  some 
overpowering  anxiety,  or  with  a  passion  which  he  could  not, 
in  the  nature  of  things,  comprehend,  but  which  had  power 
to  shake  her  like  a  reed  in  the  wind. 

"Monsieur — "  she  began  again. 

He  approached  more  nearly,  and  bore  himself  with  a 
deference  which  he  hoped  would  be  reassuring.  "Madame," 
he  questioned,  "is  there  anything  that  I  can  do  for  ye?" 

"Ah,  monsieur,  there  is  so  much  —  if  you  can  —  if  you 
only  will!" 

The  hands  were  unclasped  and  extended  in  appeal;  and 
they  were  very  dainty  and  white,  and  moving  with  the  help- 
lessness they  indicated.  O'Rourke  dared  to  catch  one  of 
them  gently  in  his  broad  palm;  with  a  quick  movement  he 
carried  it  to  his  lips,  and  released  it. 

"Monsieur!" 

He  was  crushed  by  the  reproach  in  her  eyes.  "  But,  ma- 
dame,"  he  pleaded  humbly,  "we  are  too  deep  in  shadow  to 
have  been  seen !  And,  sure,  I  couldn't  help  it — though,  faith, 
ye  must  believe  'twas  with  all  the  respect  in  the  world  — " 

She  cut  him  short  with  an  impatient  movement.  "I  for- 
give," she  told  him.  "I  —  I  misunderstood.  Pardon  me, 
monsieur.  But  — I  have  so  little  time — " 

[266] 


The  Words  of  Delilah 

"Then  tell  me  quickly,"  he  besought  her,  "in  what  I  may 
serve  ye. " 

"Ah,  but  do  you  mean  it?  I  have  such  need  of  a  friend, 
monsieur!" 

"'Tis  me  hope,  madame,  that  I  may  be  made  happy  by 
being  termed  such." 

"You  don't  know  me,  monsieur?"  she  doubted,  with' a 
pursing  of  her  lips  that  nigh  maddened  the  man. 

For  he  had  considered  them  rather  in  the  way  of  perfec- 
tion, as  the  lips  of  women  go;  and  the  heart  of  O'Rourke, 
though  steadfast  enough  in  the  long  run,  was  alarmingly 
tender  towards  beauty  in  distress. 

"I  have  known  ye  long  —  in  me  dreams,  madame." 

"Ah!"  she  cried  softly,  as  though  his  gallant  words  meant 
much  to  her  —  which,  her  eyes  were  telling  him,  was  so. 
Nor  was  he  loath  to  believe. 

"I  —  I  have  noticed  you,  monsieur,"  she  said  at  length, 
"many  times.  You  may  have  guessed — " 

"Faith,  I  laid  it  to  me  egotism,  madame!" 

"And  all  the  time  I  was  wishing  that  I  might  have  a  man 
such  as  you  to  lean  upon  in  my  trouble.  Ah,  monsieur!  if 
I  only  had— " 

"I'm  here,"  he  suggested  simply. 

At  that  moment  she  turned,  with  an  apprehensive  glance 
over  her  shoulder,  and  uttered  a  little  cry  of  alarm.  O'Rourke 
followed  her  gaze,  and  saw,  stark  and  black  in  the  doorway 
of  Shepheard's,  the  slim  figure  of  the  returning  Egyptian. 

"Quick!"  cried  the  woman.    "Do  not  let  him  see — " 

He  lingered  a  perilous  instant.    "What  am  I  to  do ?" 

"Wait  here,  monsieur  —  to-night  —  I  will  let  you  know." 

And,  suddenly,  O'Rourke  was  back  in  his  chair,  calmly 
enough  watching  the  uptwisting  smoke  of  his  cigar. 

[267] 


Terence  O'Rourke,  Gentleman  Adventurer 

For  all  that,  the  man's  heart  was  rioting  within  him;  her 
words,  with  their  call  upon  his  chivalric  nature,  her  eyes,  with 
their  enchantment  for  his  senses,  the  music  of  her  voice  — 
it  was  as  though  these  had  distilled  into  the  man's  veins  some 
magic  potion,  filling  them  with  a  sweet  madness. 

"But  'tis  meself  that's  the  fool!"  he  repented  bitterly, 
a  second  later.  For  madarne's  escort  had  approached,  and, 
with  a  curt  word  to  her,  had  offered  his  arm.  She  had  taken 
it  without  reply;  and  now  their  carriage  was  gone  into  the 
mysterious  night,  leaving  O'Rourke  without  so  much  as  a 
backward  glance,  or  a  parting  gesture  of  her  free  hand  — 
leaving  him  half  staggered  by  the  unreality  of  the  whole 
affair  and  more  than  half  inclined  to  believe  that  he  had 
dreamed  it. 


[268] 


CHAPTER  DC 

THE  PALACE  OF  DUST 

SHORTLY  after  midnight  a  late  moon  rose  behind  the  slim, 
white  minarets  of  the  Mehemet  All  Mosque,  to  sail  peace- 
fully over  the  quiet  city,  flooding  Ismailieh's  broad  avenues 
and  the  tortuous  byways  of  the  native  quarters  with  a  silvery 
splendor  that  seemed  well-nigh  unearthly. 

It  grew  more  cool  and  yet  more  quiet.  O'Rourke  — 
stubbornly  remaining  in  his  chair  on  the  terrace  the  while  he 
wondered  just  precisely  how  many  kinds  of  an  ass  he  was 
making  of  himself  —  O'Rourke  felt  the  chill  of  the  desert 
breeze  penetrating  his  thin  evening  clothes,  and  sent  a  ser- 
vant for  his  Inverness. 

Danny  brought  it. 

" Beggin'  yer  honor's  pardon,  sor,"  he  said,  "but  yer  honor 
will  be  comin'  in  now,  will  ye  not  ? " 

O'Rourke,  though  aware  that  the  man  was  in  the  right, 
snapped  at  him  angrily. 

"Why?" 

"  Sure,  now,  sor,  'tis  late,  and  'tis  mesilf  that's  bought  seats 
on  the  first  train  for  Port  Said  in  the  marnin',  sor.  We'll  be 
startin'  early,  and  'tis  yersilf  that  needs  rest." 

"Go  to  the  diwle,  Danny,"  said  O'Rourke  pleasantly, 
"  if  so  be  it  ye  do  not  want  me  to  kick  ye  there.  I  may  change 
me  mind  before  the  morning.  Get  out  now!" 

"Aw,  wirra!"  lamented  Danny;  but  he  wisely  obeyed. 

An  hour  dragged  by  with  leaden  feet;  O'Rourke,  shivering, 

[269] 


cursed  his  folly,  and  ordered  brandy  to  keep  his  heart  warm. 
Hardly  had  he  swallowed  it  ere  a  shadow  detached  itself  from 
the  dense  blackness  on  the  farther  side  of  the  street  and 
shambled  uncertainly  across  to  and  up  the  terrace  steps. 

"Sure,  'tis  a  giant!"  muttered  O'Rourke. 

It  was  almost  that;  a  huge  Nubian,  black  as  a  patent- 
leather  shoe,  his  burly  form  enveloped  in  a  Bedouin  cloak. 
He  made  for  O'Rourke  with  no  hesitancy,  as  one  who  acts 
upon  instructions  to  "seek  out  the  man  at  such-and-such  a 
table,"  and,  without  a  word,  handed  him  a  little  sealed  note. 

O'Rourke  opened  it,  shifting  his  position  to  bring  the  sheet 
into  the  brilliant  moonlight. 

It  was  of  light,  flimsy  paper,  laden  with  an  elusive  per- 
fume which  went  to  O'Rourke's  head  —  the  identical  inde- 
finable fragrance  that  had  mounted  to  his  brain  when  he 
stooped  over  the  hand  of  his  Egyptian  goddess. 

With  some  difficulty,  because  of  the  uncertain  light,  he 
deciphered  its  few  words: 

"  Come  to  me  at  once,  man  colonel,  if  your  words  to  me  an 
hour  gone  were  not  mere  gallantry." 

It  was  unsigned.  But  O'Rourke  was  beyond  doubting. 
He  rose,  wrapping  his  Inverness  about  him  and  looking  the 
Nubian  over  with  a  calculating  eye. 

"If  ye  are  not  trustworthy,  boy,"  he  said  slowly,  "I  shall 
break  your  neck.  Walk  ahead  of  me — and  go  quickly,  lest 
the  toe  of  me  boot  assists  ye." 

The  spherical  black  head  seemed  to  split  precisely  in  half 
as  the  man  laughed  silently. 

"Yaas,  sar,"  he  said;  and  without  another  word  turned 
and  stalked  away,  O'Rourke  following  at  his  heels,  his  keen 
eyes  searching  every  shadow  that  they  encountered. 

Their  journey  was  long  —  unconscionably  so,  O'Rourke 

[270] 


The  Palace  of  Dust 

complained.  They  walked  swiftly,  crossing  the  middle  of  the 
Place  Ezbekieh  and  making  thereafter  ever  eastward,  into 
the  narrow,  crooked  streets  of  the  Arabian  quarter,  where  the 
reeking  roadways,  rough  and  ill-paved,  were  half  white, 
a-shimmer  with  moonlight,  and  half  inky  black  in  the  shadow 
of  the  overhanging  upper  stories  of  the  native  dwellings. 

O'Rourke  insisted  they  should  keep  on  the  lighted  side  — 
insisted,  to  tell  the  truth,  against  the  protests  of  the  Nubian, 
who  seemed  to  have  some  strong  and  compelling  reason  for 
exercising  the  utmost  caution.  And,  indeed,  when  he  an- 
nounced that  they  were  near  upon  the  end  of  their  journey, 
the  slave  stopped  stock-still  and  refused  to  budge  another 
inch  unless  O'Rourke  would  consent  to  creep  along  cau- 
tiously and  as  silently  as  possible  on  the  shadowed  side  of 
the  way. 

Reluctantly,  O'Rourke  agreed;  it  was  not  that  he  feared 
the  man  himself,  nor  was  he  suspicious  of  the  fellow's  destina- 
tion ;  but,  if  it  so  happened  that  a  hired  assassin  from  Prince 
Viazma  was  dogging  him,  a  path  in  the  darkness  would  leave 
him  utterly  defenseless  against  an  attack  from  behind. 

However,  he  would  not  have  it  said  of  O'Rourke  that  a 
danger  had  ever  daunted  him.  Too  many  times  had  he 
taken  his  life  in  his  hands  for  little  or  nothing,  to  draw  back 
now,  at  a  time  when,  very  likely,  the  most  fearful  of  his  dan- 
gers sprang  from  his  imagination  alone. 

Without  argument,  therefore,  but  with  his  fingers  close 
to  the  butt  of  his  revolver,  and  a  cautious  glance  now  and 
then  over  his  shoulder,  he  followed  the  Nubian;  in  such  order 
they  made  silent  progress  for  several  minutes,  eventually 
turning  a  corner. 

The  black  stopped,  lifting  a  warning  hand,  and  vanished 
without  a  sound.  O'Rourke  tightened  his  hold  upon  his 

[271] 


Terence  O'Rourke,  Gentleman  Adventurer 

revolver,  half  drew  it  from  his  pocket,  and  waited.  And 
while  waiting  the  man  looked  about  him,  and  knew  that 
he  was,  to  all  intents  and  purposes,  lost;  in  the  illuding 
moonlight,  at  least,  the  street  in  which  he  stood  was  totally 
unknown  to  him. 

For  some  minutes  he  waited,  with  a  growing  impatience. 
The  night  lay  about  him  beautiful  and  very  quiet;  far  in  the 
distance  the  faint  jangle  of  some  native  stringed  instrument 
stirred  upon  the  breeze ;  and,  farther  yet,  a  pariah  dog  lifted 
his  nose  to  heaven  and  poured  out  his  soul's  sorrow  to  the 
sympathetic  moon;  whereupon  all  his  friends,  neighbors,  and 
relations  in  Cairo  joined  their  wails  of  anguish  unto  his. 

O'Rourke  stood  wrapped  in  the  illusions  of  his  imagina- 
tion, fancying  that  the  moon's  rays,  falling  upon  a  distant 
wall  of  white,  were  like  the  glowing  pallor  of  his  goddess  of 
the  night;  that  the  stark,  black  shadow  of  a  far  doorway, 
with,  a  dim  glimmer  of  reddish  light  from  a  native  lamp  in  its 
center,  was  as  the  shadowed  glory  of  madame's  eyes  . .  . 

A  touch  upon  his  arm  made  him  wheel  sharply  about,  alert, 
to  find  the  Nubian  by  his  side;  he  nerved  himself  against  the 
slightest  alarm  and  followed. 

In  a  moment  he  had  crossed  a  threshold,  to  stand  in  a  room 
of  Stygian  darkness.  A  door  was  closed  and  bolted  behind 
him.  In  another,  the  slave  had  caught  him  by  the  hand  and 
drawn  him  forward  —  while  he  yielded  with  a  strange  re- 
luctance. And  in  a  third  instant  he  had  stumbled  up  a  short, 
steep,  narrow  flight  of  stairs,  passing  through  a  second  door- 
way; where  the  Nubian  deserted  him,  stepping  back  and 
shutting  the  door  softly. 

The  Irishman  stood  still,  for  a  passing  second  somewhat 
confused  —  at  a  loss  to  imagine  what  would  come  next  upon 
the  program  of  this  adventure  that  (he  was  thinking)  might 

[272] 


The  Palace  of  Dust 

have  been  lifted  bodily  from  the  pages  of  the  "Arabian 
Nights," 

Before  him  there  hung,  swaying  lightly,  a  curtain  of  thin., 
fine  silk  of  a  faded  rose  tint,  faintly  luminous;  behind  him 
was  the  door,  and  on  either  hand  blank  wooden  walls.  As 
he  hesitated,  he  heard  a  voice,  and  his  heart  stood  still  — 
what  power  had  a  pretty  woman's  voice  to  stir  the  heart  of 
this  maul 

"Enter,  if  you  please,  monsieur!" 

He  thrust  the  swinging  drapery  aside,  and  entered  in  one 
stride — to  halt  and  stand,  blinking,  in  the  diffused,  dim 
radiance  of  a  single,  shaded,  hanging  light. 

His  eyes  sought  the  woman,  but  at  first  did  not  find  her; 
and  lie  mechanically  inventoried  his  surroundings  —  obe- 
dient to  the  instinct  that  causes  the  adventurer  to  familiarize 
himself  with  the  field  against  whatever  emergency  the  future 
may  bring  to  pass. 

Apparently  the  apartment  was  one  of  those  that  had,  at 
some  former  time,  composed  the  harem  in  some  wealthy 
Mohammedan  prince's  palace.  Evidences  of  long  neglect 
were  crowded  within  its  walls,  however;  the  flimsy  silken 
hangings  that  draped  every  inch  of  them  were  stained  and 
frayed  and  torn,  showing  behind  them  glimpses  of  dark 
recesses.  The  mushrabeah  lattice  that  gave  upon  the  inner 
courtyard  of  the  dwelling  was  fallen  into  decay;  in  one  place 
it  was  quite  broken  away,  revealing  a  portion  of  the  court 
itself,  dark,  silent,  patched  with  moonlight  that  fell  through 
the  trembling  leaves  of  a  giant  acacia  that  overhung  a  life- 
less fountain. 

In  the  room,  again,  dust  lay  thick  upon  the  furnishings;  a 
tabouret  that  caught  the  Irishman's  eye,  because  of  the  beauty 
of  its  inlaid  design,  could  have  been  written  upon  with  the 

[273] 


Terence  O'Rourke,  Gentleman  Adventurer 

tip  of  his  finger;  the  coloring  in  the  rug  beneath  his  feet  wai 
half  obliterated  by  a  layer  of  dirt,  that  rose  in  little  puffs  when 
the  man  moved  . 

Pervading  all,   indeed,    was   that    penetrating,    insisten 
atmosphere   of   an   abandoned   dwelling,    the    indefinable 
musty,  uninhabited  odor  that   lingers   within   rooms    the, 
have  once  known,  but,  through  the  lapse  of  time,  have  well- 
nigh  forgotten,  the  footsteps,  the  voices,  the  laughter  and  the 
burdens  of  men's  lives  —  and  women's. 

And  over  all,  too,  brooded  the  compelling  silence  of  dead 
homes  —  the  stillness  that  abides  in  those  tombs  of  human 
emotion,  seeming  fairly  to  shriek  aloud  its  resentment  of 
alien  intrusion. 

In  it  the  sigh  of  the  night  wind  through  a  distant  window 
was  loud  and  arresting;  the  rustle  of  the  acacia's  leaves  shrilled 
high  and  clear;  and  to  O'Rourke,  upon  whose  optimistic, 
gregarious  self  the  quietness  jarred,  the  regular  rise  and  fall 
of  human  respiration  near  to  him  was  a  distinct  comfort. 

He  stood  motionless  for  full  a  minute,  from  the  first  quite 
aware  that  the  woman  had  secreted  herself  and  was  watching 
him  from  her  retreat;  he  bore  the  scrutiny  with  the  grace  that 
was  ever  his  —  with  an  attitude  of  forbearing  patience. 

And  then,  as  he  had  told  himself  it  would  befall,  the  dra- 
peries rustled  and  the  woman  stood  before  him. 

Certain  it  is  that  she  had  never  seemed  so  lovely  to  the  man 
—  even  in  his  wildest  dreams  —  nor  so  desirable;  a  breath- 
ing, pulsating  incarnation  of  modern  beauty  in  that  rose- 
tinted  boudoir  of  dead  and  forgotten  loves. 

She  was  still  in  her  evening  gown;  her  light  cloak  of  black 
silk  had  slipped  aside,  exposing  bare,  gleaming  arms  and 
shoulders  of  a  pellucid  alabaster  in  their  dark  frame. 

As  for  the  eloquent  face  of  her,  it  seemed  more  than  ever 

[274] 


The  Palace  of  Dust 

of  a  bewildering  witchery.  Her  lips,  half  parted  in  her 
welcoming  smile,  flamed  amazingly  scarlet  upon  her  intense 
pallor.  And  as  for  her  eyes  —  even  the  florid  Celtic  imagery 
of  O'Rourke's  imagination  had  now  no  words  to  phrase 
their  magnificence.  He  might  but  stand  and  look  and  re- 
joice in  the  seemingly  aimless  succession  of  events  that  had 
brought  him  into  her  presence,  there  to  worship. 

They  were  quite  alone,  he  saw;  his  breath  came  hot  and 
fast,  his  temples  throbbed  with  the  knowledge.  He  put  his 
hand  to  his  eyes,  as  if  to  shield  them  —  in  truth,  to  hide  the 
look  he  knew  had  come  into  them. 

"Pardon,  madame,"  he  stammered  awkwardly. 

She  seemed  puzzled.  "The  light,  monsieur?"  she  asked, 
smiling. 

"No,  madame."  He  withdrew  his  hand  and  came  a  pace 
nearer  to  her;  his  gaze  became  steady,  but  his  voice  trembled. 
"No,  madame;  'tis  not  the  lights  —  not  the  lights,  madame, 
that  —  Shall  I  be  telling  ye  what  it  is  that  blinds  me  ?  " 

It  was  impossible  to  misread  the  man's  attitude.  Her 
lashes  lowered  before  his  ardent  gaze.  She  laughed  a  trifle 
nervously,  and,  "Not  now,  monsieur,"  she  begged  him  hur- 
riedly; "not  now." 

"Not  now?  D'ye  mean  that,  a  bit  later,  perhaps,  ye  will 
permit  me  to  tell  ye  what  is  burning  in  me  heart  — " 

But  she  checked  him  with  an  imperious  gesture.  "Mon- 
sieur!" she  insisted,  softening  the  rebuke  with  a  dazzling 
smile.  "  Can  you  not  wait  ?" 

"Wait?  Faith,  not  for  long!  'Tis  not  in  me  to  be  wait- 
ing, when  me — " 

"This  is  not  the  time,"  she  pronounced  severely,  "for  — 
for  folly,  mon  colonel.  We  have  weightier  business  to  pass 
upon." 

[275] 


Terence  O'Rourke,  Gentleman  Adventurer 

He  made  a  gesture  expressive  of  his  humorous  resignation. 

"Tell  me,"  she  continued  in  another  tone,  "were  you 
followed?"  , 

"To  me  knowledge?    No,  madame." 

"You  are  not  sure,  then?" 

"Madame,  I  am  a  soldier;  a  soldier  is  sure  of  nothing  good 
until  it  is  a  proven  fact.  I  was  careful  to  watch,  but  saw  not 
even  a  shadow  move  after  us.  Still  — "  He  waved  his  hand 
with  broad  significance. 

"Still,"  she  amended,  "one  can  trust  for  the  best." 

"  One  —  or  two,  madame  ?  " 

She  gave  him  a  fleeting  smile,  then  sat  in  silence  for  a  space, 
which  she  terminated  with  a  faint  sigh  of  relief. 

"Then,"  she  remarked,  as  if  to  herself,  "we  dare  hope  that 
they  do  not  know  where  you  are." 

"They—" 

"Your  enemies,  monsieur." 

"Ah,  yes,"  said  O'Rourke,  scanning  her  face  narrowly, 
"me  enemies." 

"And  my  friends,"  she  added. 

He  opened  his  eyes  very  wide  indeed.  "Faith,"  he  ex- 
claimed, "madame,  ye  speak  in  riddles.  I  fail  to  compre- 
hend. 'Tis  meself  that's  the  bad  hand  at  riddles." 

She  did  not  reply  directly,  but  contented  herself  with  watch- 
ing closely  through  her  long  and  upcurled  lashes  the  play  of 
expression  upon  the  Irishman's  ingenuous  and  open  features. 
She  could  have  read  therefrom  naught  in  the  world  but 
bewilderment;  for  that  was  coming  to  be  O'Rourke's  sole 
emotion  at  such  times  as  the  strangeness  of  the  affair  made 
him  forget  to  admire  this  woman. 

Presently,  growing  restive  under  her  long  and  silent  critical 
appraisal,  he  took  up  his  complaint. 

[276] 


The  Palace  of  Dust 

"I'm  fair  dazed,"  he  expostulated,  with  a  halting  laugh. 
"Ye  sent  for  me  to  do  ye  a  service  —  and,  sure  now,  me 
heart's  at  your  feet,  madame.  Say  what  ye  wish  of  me,  and 
—  'tis  done."  He  paused,  knitting  his  brows  over  her 
baffling  secretivenesso  Then,  "I'm  ready,  madame,"  he 
concluded. 

"You  promise  largely,  monsieur." 

"Faith,  'tis  me  nature  so  to  do.  For  how  could  I  be  an 
Irishman  were  I  of  the  breed  to  balk  at  obstacles?" 

At  this  she  laughed  outright,  and  so  sincerely  that  O'Rourke 
was  fain  to  join  her.  But,  even  in  the  height  of  her  mirth,  he 
fancied  he  detected  an  undercurrent  of  anxiety. 

Madame,  he  thought,  seemed  ever  to  be  listening,  to  be 
constantly  upon  her  guard  against  the  unforeseen,  the  un- 
expected. She  seemed  oppressed  by  a  fear;  and  yet  not  to 
know  how  to  voice  her  apprehension  to  him  upon  whom  she 
had  called  to  act  as  her  protector. 

So  that  her  next  words  surprised  him,  though  they  sounded 
as  though  she  brought  them  out  with  some  difficulty. 

"It  is  very  simple,  monsieur,"  she  began;  and  paused,  as 
one  at  loss  for  words. 

"Simple?"  he  echoed. 

"What  I  would  have  of  you." 

"Then,  sure,  'tis  me  heart  ye  are  thinking  of,"  he  protested. 
"'Tis  the  simplest,  most  affectionate  one  in  the  world, 
madame." 

But  she  would  not  be  turned  aside  from  the  trend  of  her 
worriment.  She  cast  upon  him  a  look  almost  appealing  in 
its  intensity;  then  hastily  averted  her  face,  arose,  took  a  step 
or  two  falteringly  away,  and  finally  paused  with  her  back  to 
O'Rourke,  her  face  to  the  lattice,  looking  out  into  the  deso- 
late court. 

[277] 


Terence  O'Rourke,  Gentleman  Adventurer 

"It  is  a  subject  not  too  easy  to  approach,"  she  confessed 
at  length.  "What  service  you  may  do  me  —  it  is  a  difficult 
thing  to  ask  of  you." 

He  marked  her  accent  as  of  weariness. 

"Ye  have  not  asked  it,"  he  suggested  gently.  "Faith, 
I'm  ready." 

"  You  are  a  man,  brave,  straightforward,  monsieur.  I  — 
I  have  a  woman's  love  of  the  subtle.  I  —  do  not  misunder- 
stand my  motive,  I  beg  of  you  —  I  have  coaxed  you  hither 
that  you  might  escape  a  —  a  dreadful  fate,  monsieur.  I  — 
Ah!  if  only  I  knew  what  it  were  best  to  do!" 

"Faith!"  he  muttered.  "Tis  the  O'Rourke  who'd  like 
to  advise  ye.  But  ye  speak  of  matters  quite  too  far  removed 
from  me  knowledge." 

She  turned  to  face  him  abruptly,  resolution  krge  in  her 
eyes. 

"It  is  this,  then,"  she  said  swiftly;  "by  chance  I  have 
learned  that  you  are  to  be  assassinated." 

O'Rourke  whistled  softly. 

"  You  will  not  be  permitted  to  leave  Cairo  alive,"  she  added. 

O'Rourke  sat  down  on  the  tabouret  and  eyed  her  with 
growing  admiration. 

"Had  you  remained  at  Shepheard's  this  night,  monsieur, 
and  either  attempted  to  leave  Cairo  in  the  morning,  or  —  or 
to  communicate  with  the  authorities  —  you  would  have  died." 

"Sure,  now,"  O'Rourke  admitted,  "this  is  interesting. 
Yes." 

He  bent  his  gaze  to  the  tip  of  his  polished  shoe,  puckered 
his  lips,  whistled  a  little  inaudible  tune.  The  woman 
watched  him  impatiently,  tapping  the  rug  with  the  toe  of 
her  slipper.  O'Rourke  came  out  of  his  brown  study  with  a 
suppressed  chuckle.  She  started,  looking  her  surprise, 

[278] 


"  You  laugh  ?  "  she  questioned.     "  You  do  not  believe  me  ?" 

"Indeed,  and  I  do  so.  In  fact,  it  but  dovetails  with  me 
own  suspicions.  What  I've  been  trying  to  figure  out,  ma- 
dame,  is  how  ye  come  to  know  so  much.  Another  thing  — 
ye  did  not  bring  me  here  to  warn  me  of  this;  I  could  have 
taken  such  a  warning  as  well  at  Shepheard's.  .  .  .  Well, 
madame?" 

"No."  She  turned  away  again  to  the  lattice;  he  divined 
that  she  did  not  wish  him  to  read  her  face.  "  No,  not  alone 
to  tell  you  that.  I  brought  you  here,  monsieur  —  to  save 
you." 

"I  —  faith,  I'm  infinitely  obliged,  madame.  But  I  con- 
fess that  I  fail  to  follow  ye." 

"In  all  Cairo"  —  her  earnestness  carried  conviction  — 
"you  could  nowhere  be  safe  to-night  save  here." 

"I'm  not  so  sure  of  that  as  ye  seem  to  be,"  he  said  to 
himself.  "However  " — aloud  —  " 'tis  very  kind  of  ye;  but 
why  do  ye  take  such  trouble  for  a  vagabond  that's  naught 
to  ye,  madame?" 

" Have  I  said  —  that?" 

Her  answer  was  quick.  But  O'Rourke  nodded  saga- 
ciously at  her  white  shoulders.  He  was  beginning  to  glimpse 
an  illuminating  light. 

"Ye  did  not,"  he  conceded.  "For  that  matter,  madame, 
ye  have  not  told  me  how  'tis  ye  that  are  so  authoritatively 
informed  concerning  the  O'Rourke." 

His  tone  apprised  her  of  the  fact  that  the  blindfold  had 
been  lifted  from  his  eyes.  No  longer  the  man  was  walking 
in  darkness  —  as  far  as  concerned  herself,  at  least. 

"I,"  she  told  him,  "am  acquainted  with  certain  parties 
who  —  who  — " 

"Who  are  acquainted  with  me?" 

[  270! 


Terence  O'Rourke,  Gentleman  Adventurer 

"Yes,  monsieur." 

"For  instance,  if  ye'll  permit  me,  one  Monsieur  Nicolas 
Kozakevitch  ?  "  he  suggested. 

She  nodded,  almost  timidly.  O'Rourke  caught  her  eye 
and  grinned  outright, 

"That,"  he  said,  with  a  snap  of  his  fingers,  "for  Monsieur 
le  Prince.  But,  madame,  as  to  yourself,  ye  are  — " 

"I  am  the  daughter  of  Constantine  Pasha,"  she  declared 
outright 

"Yes,"  agreed  O'Rourke  musingly;  "and  the  tall,  brown, 
young  man  that  dances  attendance  upon  ye  —  he  is  Prince 
Aziz.  I  might  have  guessed  it." 

His  mind  worked  rapidly.  Madame  of  the  wondrous  eyes, 
then,  was,  in  reality,  a  mademoiselle  —  daughter  to  Constan- 
tine Pasha,  that  wily  Turkish  diplomat  who  had  been  the 
power  behind  Arabi  Pasha  in  the  rebellion  of  '82. 

Dimly  he  recalled  having  heard  some  boulevard  rumor  in 
Paris  concering  the  wonderful,  exotic  beauty  of  this  girl, 
daughter  of  the  Turk  by  an  Italian  wife.  He  had  heard, 
too,  of  her  devotion  to  her  father's  memory,  her  outspoken 
declaration  that  she  would  carry  on  the  work  that  his  death 
had  left  unfinished.  And  he  remembered  having  read  in 
some  newspaper  a  short  paragraph  announcing  mademoi- 
selle's betrothal  to  young  Prince  Aziz  of  the  Khedivai  suc- 
cession. 

"Two  and  two,"  thought  the  Irishman,  "make  four.  'Tis 
four  years  since  Arabi  Pasha  returned  from  exile  in  Ceylon. 
I've  been  told  that  he  was  living  quietly  here  in  Egypt;  and 
'tis  surely  so.  A  conspirator  is  always  living  quietly,  for 
obvious  reasons.  Well,  then,  'tis  simple  enough.  Arabi  is 
back;  Viazma  is  here  to  represent  Russia;  mam'selle  to  honor 
her  father's  memory  in  oceans  of  English  gore;  Aziz  playing 

f28o] 


The  Palace  of  Dust 

Abbas  Himli's  hand  in  the  game;  France  wishing  to  see  Eng- 
land turned  out  of  control;  Turkey,  Russia,  —  Egypt  her- 
self, —  quite  -willing  —  faith,  here  we  have  the  ingredients 
of  a  first-class  conspiracy,  with  the  trimmings  of  battle,  mur- 
der, and  sudden  death." 

He  smiled  engagingly  upon  the  woman.  He  had  probed 
her  secret;  he  now  taxed  her  with  his  knowledge  straightway. 

"Ye  are  hand-in-glove,  mam'selle,  with  the  men  who  con- 
spire against  EngKsh  occupation." 

She  mutely  bowed  assent;  O'Rourke  found  it  difficult  to 
read  what  lay  in  her  eyes  —  an  art,  too,  wherein  the  man  was 
somewhat  skilled. 

"Ye  are  with  those,"  he  went  on,  even  a  trifle  bitterly, 
"who  would  raise  again  that  old,  deluding  cry,  'Egypt  for 
the  Egyptians  1": 

"I  am!"  she  proclaimed  passionately. 

"I  am  not,"  he  stated  as  quietly.  "And  ye  brought  me 
here,  mam'selle.  Faith,  I  begin  to  sense  your  motive.  Twas 
not  for  me  neck's  sake  ye  did  this.  What  is  one  man's  life 
to  ye  more  than  another  ?  Sure,  if  ye  accomplish  your  pur- 
pose, the  next  Nile  inundation  will  be  out  of  all  season, 
brought  about  by  the  oceans  of  English  blood  that'll  sweep- 
through  the  sands  to  swell  the  flood!  Have  ye  thought  on 
that,  mam'selle  ?  I  see  ye  have  —  or  believe  ye  have.  What 
does  a  woman  reck  of  war,  and  what  stalks  hand-in-hand 
with  war  ?  Faith,  for  ye  'tis  all  glitter  and  gold  and  glory  — 
'  Egypt  for  the  Egyptians!'  (which  means  for  the  Russians  and 
the  Turkish  and  the  French!), ' and  diwte  take  the  English!' " 

He  paused.  The  woman's  eyes  had  widened;  for  the  mo- 
ment she  was  spellbound  by  his  rude  eloquence.  Her  breath 
came  quickly,  and  she  hung  upon  his  words;  though,  in  point 
of  fact,  the  next  were  to  sting  her  like  the  lash  of  a  whip. 

[281] 


Terence  O'Rourke,  Gentleman  Adventurer 

"And  ye  wanted  O'Rourke  to  be  with  ye,  to  lead  the  mas- 
sacre, whether  he  would  or  no!  Faith,  mam'selle,  'tis  an 
insult  to  your  beauty  that  ye  should  make  of  it  a  snare  for  a 
poor  adventurer!" 

She  started  toward  him,  blazing  with  anger;  O'Rourke 
sat  awestruck  with  the  flaming  beauty  of  her.  And  then  — 
she  stopped;  the  flush  that  had  colored  her  cheeks  with 
shame  evoked  by  his  words  ebbed,  leaving  her  more  pale, 
it  seemed,  than  before.  She  stood  irresolute,  her  lips  trem- 
bling. 

What  was  she  to  say  to  him,  who  saw  so  clearly,  who  had 
power  to  make  her  see  more  clearly  than  ever  she  had  seen, 
what  the  explosion  would  mean,  once  the  spark  touched  the 
powder? 

What  could  she  say?  The  phrases  that  she  had  thought 
to  use  were  become  vapid,  meaningless,  since  he  had  spoken 
his  mind  —  spoken  it  freely,  boldly,  forthright,  like  the  man 
he  was.  Her  artillery  was  spiked,  this  Irishman  trium- 
phant. 

He  was  right.  She  hated  him  for  being  right.  She  hated 
him  —  or,  did  she?  She  had  never  loved;  was  this  —  the 
dawn?  Was  this  —  love?  Or  fascination?  What  was 
there  about  the  man  —  the  lean,  bronzed  face,  the  resolute 
swing  of  his  shoulders,  the  devil-may-care  honesty  of  him  — 
that  had  printed  his  image  on  her  mind,  indelibly,  it  seemed, 
since  first  she  had  met  his  look  of  almost  boyish  adoration  ? 

But  —  she  must  not  think  of  that.  There  was  the  Cause. 
She  was  pledged  to  the  Cause,  whatever  might  befall. 
And  still,  there  was  no  heart  in  her  for  the  alluring  of 
O'Rourke  —  the  winning  of  him  to  the  side  of  the  Cause, 
which  she  had  pledged  to  her  fellow  conspirators. 

What  had  she  to  say  for  herself? 

[282] 


The  Palace  of  Dust 

She  looked  up  and  deep  into  his  face;  read  the  trouble 
there,  and  the  courage;  divined  how  steadfast  was  his  loyalty 
to  his  people  —  the  English-speaking  people  —  as  well  as 
how  futile  would  be  her  most  desperate  blandishments 
directed  against  his  simple  honesty. 

She  put  out  her  hands  with  a  little,  hopeless  gesture  —  like 
a  tired  child. 

"I  am  defeated,"  she  admitted,  smiling  almost  wanly. 
"What  I  have  told  you  is  true,  monsieur.  I  learned  that 
you  were  to  die  for  Prince  Vladislaus'  indiscretion.  He 
spoke  more  freely  than  he  had  warrant  to  speak'.  Granted, 
monsieur,  that  you  pledged  your  word  to  silence.  And 
yet—" 

"  A  Russian  judges  all  men  by  himself,"  laughed  O'Rourke. 

"Yes.  So  you  were  doomed.  Yet,  it  was  considered 
better  that  you  should  be  won  to  our  cause,  if  possible,  rather 
than  slain.  I  —  I  had  marked  your  admiration  of  me,  mon- 
sieur; I  volunteered  to  —  to  bring  you  to  the  side  of  safety 
and  of  our  cause.  .  .  .  Monsieur"  — unconsciously  she  low- 
ered her  voice.  O'Rourke  drew  nearer;  he  even  dared  pos- 
sess himself  of  her  hands,  and  to  hold  them  firmly  while  he 
stood  bending  his  head  that  he  might  catch  what  she  was 
whispering. 

"Monsieur,"  she  said  again;  and  hesitated  for  a  long  time; 
so  long,  indeed,  that  the  silence  began  to  seem  strained  and 
tense,  and  O'Rourke's  ears  were  filled  with  the  creak  and 
the  rustle  of  the  stillness  in  this  deserted  palace. 

"Monsieur,"  she  whispered  finally,  "you  have  won.  You 
are  ...  right." 

She  lifted  her  eyes  boldly  to  his;  O'Rourke's  breath  cama 
sharply. 

"I  am  glad  —  very  glad!"  she  declared  aloud. 

[283] 


Terence  O'Rourke,  Gentleman  Adventurer 

"Mam'selle  will  never  regret  having  won  me  to  her  ser- 
vice," O'Rourke  said  clearly. 

He  bent  and  kissed  her  hands,  while  she  gasped  in  sheer 
amazement. 

"I  am  for  mam'selle's  cause P'  he  said.  "The  O'Rourke 
cannot  fight  against  the  side  where  his  heart  is,  believe  me1. " 


[284] 


CHAPTER  X 

\ 

THE  HAND 

THE  reason  for  O'Rourke's  lightning  change  of  front  was 
not  far  to  seek;  indeed,  when  mam'selle  raised  her  eyes,  it  was 
to  see  it  and  to  comprehend. 

While  the  Irishman  had  been  standing  before  the  woman, 
holding  her  hands  and  bending  low  his  head  that  he  might 
not  miss  one  of  her  hardly  uttered  words,  the  stillness  of  the 
great,  vacant  palace  struck  sharply  upon  his  sentience. 

His  ears  were  trained  to  a  quickness;  the  creaking  and  the 
rustle  in  the  adjacent  rooms  might  well  be  those  sounds  which 
are  never  absent  from  an  abandoned  dwelling  after  nightfall. 

But,  O'Rourke,  after  learning  that  the  woman  was  the 
daughter  of  the  Turkish  diplomat,  Constantine  Pasha,  had 
not  been  slow  to  identify  the  building  to  which  she  had  caused 
him  to  be  led;  plainly  enough,  it  must  be  the  former  home  of 
her  late  father,  abandoned  to  decay  and  the  dry  rot  of  Egypt 
after  its  owner's  death. 

And  he  was  by  no  means  satisfied  that,  because  the  place 
was  the  property  of  mam'selle,  she  was  alone  in  it,  as  ap- 
pearances at  first  had  seemed  to  indicate  —  that  is,  alone 
save  for  the  Nubian  slave. 

He  remembered  having  remarked  the  place  in  his  wander- 
ings about  Cairo  —  a  huge,  rambling  hotel  of  two  stories, 
covering  much  ground,  with  the  outward  seeming  of  abso- 
lute desolation. 

It  came  to  him,  then,  that  no  fitter  place  in  all  Cairo,  no 

[285] 


Terence  O'Rourke,  Gentleman  Adventurer 

spot  more  secure  from  the  surveillance  of  spies  or  the  prying 
of  eavesdroppers,  could  have  been  hit  upon  for  a  rendezvous 
for  the  conspirators  than  this  same  palace;  and  the  fact  that 
the  woman  was  its  owner  rendered  it  available  and  doubly 
suitable. 

Very  likely,  then,  he  deemed  the  possibility  that  there 
might  be  others  —  Aziz,  perhaps,  or  even  Viazma  —  waiting 
in  a  convenient  room  for  the  result  of  mam'selle's  efforts  for 
•'  the  Cause." 

So,  when  he  caught  a  sound  much  resembling  a  man's 
footsteps  in  a  distant  room,  O'Rourke  did  not  lay  it  to  ner- 
vous imaginings;  neither  did  he  connect  them  with  the 
slave;  in  his  own  mind  he  felt  quite  assured  that  some 
one  else  was  moving  toward  them. 

Of  one  thing  he  could  not  be  positive,  however,  and  that 
was  whether  or  not  the  sounds  he  heard  were  from  an  ad- 
joining apartment  or  from  one  more  distant.  They  were  so 
slight  that  they  might  well  be  near  at  hand;  at  the  same  time, 
the  contrary  was  possible. 

It  behooved  him  to  maintain  a  lively  watchfulness  and  an 
eye  alert  to  see  the  first  loophole  for  escape.  He  was  very 
happy  in  the  knowledge  that  his  revolver  lay  snug  in  the 
pocket  of  his  evening  coat;  but  he  dared  not  move  his  hand 
to  it,  under  the  circumstances.  If  the  listener  were,  in  fact, 
near  enough  to  see,  such  action  might  prove  disastrous;  he 
might  not  be  sure  that  an  enemy  was  not  at  that  very  moment 
surveying  him  through  almost  any  aperture  in  the  torn  and 
flimsy  wall  hangings.  ?», 

Behind  him  was  a  door  —  a  fact  of  which  he  had  taken 
note  by  reason  of  the  draft  causing  the  portiere  that  hid 
it  to  belly  outward. 

Likewise  —  and  this  proved  O'Rourke's  salvation  —  be- 

[286] 


The  Hand 

hind  the  woman  of  the  night  was  a  small  glass,  set  into  the 
wall:  an  old  and  tarnished  mirror,  which,  nevertheless,  had 
sufficient  reflecting  power  to  be  of  service. 

Into  it,  then,  from  time  to  time,  the  man  had  been  casting 
furtive  glances  with  a  care  that  mam'selle  should  not  observe 
him. 

The  precaution  had  proven  of  great  value;  at  the  precise 
moment  when  the  woman,  herself  with  head  lowered,  had 
choked  with  tears,  well-nigh,  in  the  fulness  of  her  emotion, 
O'Rourke  heard  a  creak  not  thirty  feet  away  —  or  so  he 
could  have  sworn. 

And  then,  while  she  groped  in  the  maze  of  her  thoughts 
for  the  words  she  desired,  he  saw  the  portiere  cautiously 
lifted  to  one  side. 

In  the  dark  entry  thus  exposed  stood  the  figure  of  a  man; 
and  that  man  he  whom  O'Rourke  had  most  of  all,  just 
then,  to  fear  —  Prince  Vladislaus  Viazma. 

He  stood  quietly  regarding  them,  an  attentive  smile  upon 
his  face  showing  that  he  had  not  overheard  what  had  passed 
between  the  two.  There  was  an  element  of  gratification  in 
his  expression  that  would  not  have  been  there  had  he  dreamed 
that  mam'selle  had  failed  in  subjugating  the  Irishman. 

The  prince  was  plainly  prepared  for  such  a  failure,  how- 
ever; his  arms  were  folded,  the  left  above  the  right,  and  in 
the  hollow  of  the  left  elbow  rested  the  muzzle  of  a  revolver, 
its  body  and  the  hand  that  held  it  being  concealed  by  the 
folds  of  the  sleeve. 

From  where  the  Russian  stood  he  could,  without  moving, 
send  a  bullet  into  O'Rourke,  —  a  tormenting  contingency  to 
the  Irishman. 

He  —  the  prince  —  remained  perfectly  quiet  while  the 
woman  did;  but  when  she  had  ended  her  murmured  confes- 

[287] 


Terence  O'Rourke,  Gentleman  Adventurer 

sion  with  the  honest  assertion,  "I  am  glad,"  an  expression 
of  unholy  joy  had  passed  over  the  man's  features.  There 
was,  of  course,  but  one  way  of  interpreting  the  woman's 
words  to  one  who  knew  her  heart  and  her  purpose  with 
O'Rourke. 

So  O'Rourke  had  made  quick  use  of  his  five  wits;  they  had 
stood  him  in  good  stead  many  a  time  in  the  past,  nor  did  they 
fail  him  now.  His  words  were  prompted  by  the  desire  to 
stave  off  extermination  until  the  last  moment;  delays  would 
be  dangerous  —  to  Prince  Viazma. 

And,  somehow,  the  man  knew  that  he  had  touched  the 
woman's  heart,  until  then  dormant,  in  this  goddess  of  Egyp- 
tian night;  he  had  beaten  her  fairly  in  argument;  she  had 
acknowledged  the  justness  of  his  stand,  and  had  congratu- 
lated him  on  his  courage  in  abiding  by  it. 

He  felt,  intuitively  —  and  in  dealing  with  woman,  man 
must  needs  meet  her  with  her  own  most  effective  weapon, 
both  of  offense  and  defense,  intuition  —  that  he  might  throw 
himself  upon  her  generosity.  Whether  he  had  weakened 
her  in  her  devotion  to  the  Cause  or  not  was  a  matter  aside 
from  the  fact  that  her  heart  was  softened  toward  him,  that 
she  would  aid  him. 

So  he  had  declared,  "  I  am  for  mam'selle's  cause ! "  Which 
was  pure  equivocation. 

And  the  next  instant,  when  he  saw  her  look  of  supreme 
astonishment  as  she  raised  her  head  and  glanced  over  his 
shoulder  to  the  open  doorway  and  to  Monsieur  the  Diplomat, 
he  bent  toward  her  and  whispered  hurriedly: 

"My  life  is  in  the  hollow  of  your  palm,  mam'selle.  Do 
with  it  as  ye  will.  A  word  this  way  or  that  will  save,  or  — 
destroy  me." 

In  this  Viazma  saw  nothing  but  such  gallantry  as  he  knew 

[288] 


The  Hand 

the  man  to  be  prone  to;  the  effect  of  which  was  heightened  by 
the  fact  that  simultaneously  the  woman's  face  burned  crimson. 

"Poor  Aziz!"  thought  Viazma. 

And,  "Monsieur  O'Rourke,  you  make  me  very  happy," 
said  the  woman.  "I  have  not  lived  in  vain,  monsieur!" 

The  double  entente  touched  the  Irishman.  "God  bless 
ye!"  he  whispered  hoarsely. 

But  the  woman  jerked  away  her  hands  quickly,  as  though 
confused. 

"Monsieur  le  Prince!"  she  cried. 

Viazma,  assured  that  all  was  well,  stepped  into  the  room, 
dexterously  dropping  the  revolver  into  the  pocket  of  his  din- 
ner coat  —  keeping  his  hand  upon  it,  however,  ready  to  fire 
in  event  of  any  misunderstanding. 

"Pardon,"  he  purred,  grimacing  his  approval;  "I  did  not 
wish  to  intrude.  Mam'selle,  you  have  won  our  little  bet. 
Colonel  O'Rourke,  permit  me  to  congratulate  you  on  your 
sound  common  sense.  Believe  me,  sir,  it  is  well  to  follow 
the  example  of  Providence  and  fight  on  the  side  with  the 
heaviest  ordnance." 

"But  that,"  O'Rourke  assured  him,  "is  not  me  reason  for 
abjuring  me  views  of  last  evening,  monsieur.  I  am,  unfor- 
tunately, susceptible  to  the  charms  of  the  fair  sex." 

"There,"  O'Rourke  muttered  savagely  to  himself,  "if 
that's  not  sufficiently  crass  to  hoodwink  ye,  me  diplomatist 
—  well,  I'm  as  big  a  fool  as  I  hope  ye  think  me." 

But  Viazma  was  already  beyond  suspecting.  He  regarded 
the  conquest  of  O'Rourke  as  complete. 

"Let  us  all,"  he  suggested,  "join  the  others  and  announce 
to  them  our  good  fortune." 

"The  divvle!"  thought  O'Rourke  dismayed.  ''Others! 
Faith,  I  am  in  for  it!" 

[289] 


Terence  O'Rourke,  Gentleman  Adventurer 

"  If  mam'selle  will  lead  the  way  — "  suggested  the  Russian. 
He  bowed.  The  woman  laughed  lightly,  and  complied, 
sweeping  out  of  the  room. 

"Monsieur  le  Colonel,"  suggested  Viazma,  "you  will  pre- 
cede me.  Oh,  I  insist.  Or  is  it  that  you  prefer  your  future 
title,  'O'Rourke  Pasha'?" 

O'Rourke  gave  in  with  what  grace  he  could  muster.  "The 
little  whelp!"  he  ground  through  his  teeth  —  the  while  he 
smiled.  "What's  he  afraid  of,  that  he  keeps  his  pistol  in  his 
fist  ?  That  I'll  brain  him  ?  Faith,  he  may  well  be  so !" 


[290] 


CHAPTER  XI 

THE  CONSPIRATORS 

THE  palace  of  Constantine  Pasha  had  been  built  with  a 
truly  Oriental  eye  toward  the  intricate  and  devious;  to 
O'Rourke  it  seemed  a  maze,  vast  and  well-nigh  endless. 

Following  mam'selle,  his  goddess  incarnate,  and  with 
Viazma  close  behind  him,  he  passed  through  what  seemed 
an  interminable  succession  of  empty,  echoing  rooms  and 
long,  re-sounding  corridors — a  honeycomb  of  desolation  and 
of  paled  magnificence,  dusty  and  grim;  now  in  dense  dark- 
ness, now  spotted  with  the  light  of  the  moon,  which  by 
this  time  was  riding  high  in  the  serene  heavens. 

There  was  little  opportunity  for  conversation;  indeed,  not 
a  word  had  been  spoken.  O'Rourke  had  ample  food  for 
hard  thinking.  What  was  in  mam'selle's  heart?  What  in 
Viazma's  mind?  Where  were  they  leading  him  —  or  mis- 
leading him  ?  What  chance  would  he  have  to  escape  through 
this  uncharted  wilderness  of  rooms,  should  the  coming  events 
make  flight  advisable  ? 

Abruptly,  without  warning,  the  woman  drew  aside  a  heavy 
Airtain;  a  glare  of  light  dazzled  O'Rourke's  eyes;  almost 
blindly  he  strode  on,  into  a  great  room,  Viazma  following. 

As  he  paused,  he  heard  the  woman's  voice. 

"Messieurs,"  she  announced  clearly,  "I  bring  you  — 
victory !  Messieurs,  permit  me  to  introduce  to  you  Monsieur 
le  Colonel  O'Rourke,  future  Pasha  of  Egypt's  victorious 
armies!" 

[291] 


"Is  this  acting?"  dumbly  wondered  O'Rourke. 

He  looked  around,  engagingly  smiling  his  embarrassment. 

The  center  of  the  room  was  held  by  a  table,  spread  as 
though  for  a  feast;  around  it  were  ranged  ten  chairs  —  two 
unoccupied.  Standing  behind  the  others  were  eight  men. 

O'Rourke  glanced  from  face  to  face,  recognizing  some, 
passing  over  others  as  unknown  to  him  —  seeing  in  all  the 
head  and  forefront  of  the  great  conspiracy. 

He  saw  Prince  Aziz,  tall  and  straight  as  an  arrow,  survey- 
ing him  through  keen,  bead-like,  black  eyes. 

He  saw,  slouching  at  the  foot,  or  at  the  head,  of  the  table 
—  fat,  gray,  heavy  of  eye  and  heavily  jowled,  spineless  and 
plump  —  a  mass  of  flesh  animated  by  notoriety :  the  man 
who  had  once  brought  disaster  upon  Alexandria,  and  death 
and  defeat  to  thousands  of  patriotic  Egyptians  at  Tel-el- 
Kebir,  Ahmed  Arabi  Pasha. 

He  saw  men  high  in  the  ministerial  and  executive  councils 
of  the  land,  and  but  two  Europeans  among  the  lot,  barring 
himself  —  Viazma  and  a  French  consul-general. 

As  for  the  others,  they  were  for  the  most  part  Egyptians, 
Arabs,  men  of  Bedouin  blood,  with  one  great  Greek  cigarette 
manufacturer. 

There  was  a  murmur  of  complimentary  applause. 
O'Rourke  bowed.  His  gaze  instinctively  sought  that  of 
Prince  Aziz,  whose  rival  he  was  suddenly  become;  and  he 
read  therein  a  temperate  hostility. 

Arabics  eyes,  too,  met  those  of  the  Irishman.  He  nodded 
to  him  carelessly,  in  a  negligent  fashion  that  made  O'Rourke's 
blood  boil. 

"We  may  welcome  O'Rourke  Pasha,  indeed,"  said  the 
intriguer.  "Has  he  taken  the  oath,  Monsieur  le  Prince?" 

"Not  yet,"  responded  the  Russian. 

[292] 


The  Conspirators 

"There  is  yet  time,"  said  the  woman.  "Monsieur 
O'Rourke  has  pledged  me  his  word.  For  the  present  it 
is  sufficient." 

"It  is  understood  that  he  does  not  leave,  of  course,  without 
taking  the  oath,"  Aziz  insisted  surlily. 

" Oh,  that  is  very  true,"  some  one  agreed.  "Let  us  return 
to  the  point  at  issue,  messieurs." 

"A  place  for  O'Rourke  Pasha,"  Viazma  suggested. 

"He  is  welcome  to  my  chair,  messieurs,"  said  the  woman. 
"I  have  important  matters  to  look  to,  but  will  rejoin  the 
council  before  long." 

She  threw  O'Rourke  a  lightning  glance;  and  he  gathered, 
but  with  some  distrust,  that  she  was  plotting  an  escape  for 
him. 

"But  that  chair  is  at  the  head  of  the  table,"  interposed  the 
Greek  manufacturer,  with  a  doubtful  glance  to  Arabi  Pasha. 

"  Precisely,"  assented  O'Rourke  promptly.  With  two  steps, 
he  advanced  and  took  the  chair  in  question.  It  was  the  one 
nearest  the  door.  What  matter  if  Arabi  Pasha  objected  ? 

The  rest  were  seating  themselves.  O'Rourke  put  him- 
self into  the  chair  weightily,  his  eye  on  the  Greek  merchant's 
greasy  face. 

"Where  O'Rourke  sits,"  he  told  him  with  meaning,  "is 
the  head  of  the  table." 

The  remark  passed  unregarded,  save  by  the  Greek  and 
Prince  Viazma,  who  took  the  vacant  place  at  O'Rourke's 
left.  A  buzz  of  discussion,  in  a  babel  of  Arabic,  Greek,  and 
French,  had  started  up;  O'Rourke  caught  the  name  of  Lord 
Cromer  several  times,  but  paid  it  little  heed.  He  was  occu- 
pied in  furtively  taking  in  the  essential  features  of  the  scene. 
He  must  get  away  without  compromising  himself  by  an  oath 
of  allegiance  to  the  conspiracy. 

[293] 


Terence  O'Rourke,  Gentleman  Adventurer 

But  that  was  not  to  be  an  easy  matter,  he  plainly  saw. 

It  was  the  last  course  of  what  had  seemingly  been  a  ban- 
quet. From  the  table  the  cloth  had  been  removed.  The 
majority  of  the  conspirators  were  smoking.  Glasses,  brandy 
and  champagne  bottles  ornamented  the  board,  together  with 
bottles  of  soda.  What  servants  had  attended  the  guests 
were  withdrawn;  at  least,  but  two  lingered  in  the  room,  and 
they  at  the  farther  end,  behind  Arabi  Pasha's  chair. 

And  that  was  all.  The  conspirators  were  nine  to  one,  if 
O'Rourke  should  dare  a  hostile  move.  And  should  he  suc- 
ceed in  making  an  escape  from  the  apartment,  he  would  be 
lost  in  the  labyrinth  that  lay  beyond. 

Nevertheless,  he  evolved  a  scheme  —  desperate  enough 
in  all  conscience,  but  offering  some  advantages,  since  escape 
was  imperative,  and  he  held  no  warrant  for  mam'selle's 
fidelity  to  himself. 

"  The  fool  that  I  was  to  have  permitted  meself  to  be  drawn 
into  this!"  he  swore  inwardly. 

The  man  at  his  right  was  absorbed  in  discussion; 
Viazma,  on  his  left,  was  plying  a  busy  champagne  glass  — 
making  up  for  lost  tune.  O'Rourke,  for  the  moment,  was 
observed  of  none. 

It  was  an  opportunity  that  might  not  again  offer  itself;  it 
must  be  instantly  improved,  or  let  pass  forever. 

"  God  knows  'tis  taking  me  life  in  me  hands!"  thought  the 
Irishman.  "But—" 

He  tipped  back  in  his  chair,  his  eyes  fixed  on  the  face  of 
Arabi,  who  was  leading  the  argument  that  centered  about 
him,  and  carelessly  crossed  his  arms;  his  hand  slipped  un- 
observed into  the  pocket  of  his  dress  coat,  his  fingers  closing 
upon  the  butt  of  his  revolver. 

When  he  sat  forward  again  —  and,  again,  without  attract- 

[294] 


The  Conspirators 

ing  remark  —  the  weapon  was  in  his  lap,  firmly  clutched  and 
aimed  for  the  heart  of  Viazma. 

O'Rourke  leaned  forward  and  touched  the  Russian 
diplomatist  on  the  shoulder,  thus  gaining  his  attention. 
The  prince  turned  in  his  chair  to  face  him;  if  O'Rourke  had 
planned  the  maneuver,  Viazma  could  have  executed  it  in 
no  more  perfect  accord  with  the  Irishman's  wishes. 

"What  is  it,  mon  ami?"  the  Russian  wished  to  know, 
pleasantly,  smirking  in  his  pointed  beard. 

"Viazma,"  said  O'Rourke  in  a  conversational  undertone, 
"  if  ye  say  one  word,  upon  me  honor  as  a  gintleman,  I'll  kill 
ye.  Observe  in  me  lap  the  revolver.  Don't  move,  don't 
say  a  word  above  your  usual  tone." 

The  Russian  became  as  pale  as  though  already  he  were  a 
dead  man.  At  heart  Viazma  was  a  coward. 

"What  is  it  you  wish?"  he  asked,  controlling  his  voice  only 
because  he  knew  that  it  must  be  steady  if  he  would  live. 

O'Rourke  smiled  upon  him  winningly,  with  the  corner  of 
his  eye  noting  that  the  discussion  was  waxing  fast  and  fu- 
rious, and  that  they  were  noticed  by  none. 

"Your  revolver,"  he  told  Viazma;  "ye  will  put  your  hand 
into  your  pocket,  take  the  gun  out  be  the  muzzle,  and  pass  it 
to  me,  butt  first,  under  cover  of  the  table." 

Viazma  laughed  hollowly. 

"This  will  cost  you  your  life,"  he  said,  as  who  should  say, 
"It  is  a  pleasant  evening,  monsieur."  "I  can  afford  to 
humor  you,"  he  added. 

"Ye  can't  afford  to  do  anything  else,"  assured  him 
O'Rourke  with  force. 

Again  the  Russian  cackled  feebly  —  acting  for  his  life, 
and  knowing  it  well.  Obediently  and  unobtrusively  his 
hand  performed  the  actions  dictated  by  the  Irishman.  In 

[295] 


Terence  O'Rourke,  Gentleman  Adventurer 

ten  seconds  the  Russian's  weapon    lay  upon   O'Rourke's 
knee. 

"And  now  what?"  Viazma  wished  to  know  nervously. 

"Sit  around,  face  to  the  table.  Say  nothing  to  your  friend 
on  your  left  in  a  tone  that  I  cannot  hear.  If  ye  do  — well, 
a  word  to  the  Russ,  me  friend,  should  be  sufficient." 

Viazma  slowly  did  as  he  was  bid;  but  almost  immedi- 
ately afterwards  the  necessity  of  watching  him  was  over  and 
done  with. 

For  out  of  the  uproar  of  voices  that  of  Prince  Aziz  rose 
dominant. 

"Messieurs,"  he  cried,  standing  and  surveying  the  table, 
"silence,  if  you  please."  It  was  accorded  him.  "We  are 
all  agreed,  I  believe,"  he  went  on,  "at  least  upon  one  point 
—  the  assassination  of  Lord  Cromer  is  to  be  the  signal  for 
our  uprising." 

"That  is  so,"  a  voice  coincided. 

"It  remains,  then,  but  to  settle  one  thing  —  the  date  of  the 
assassination.  On  the  principle  that  the  sooner  the  better, 
I  appoint  to-morrow  evening,  when  the  British  representa- 
tive takes  his  daily  constitutional  on  the  Gizereh  Drive. 
Are  we  agreed?" 

"We  are,"  came  from  each  individual  sitter  —  save 
O'Rourke,  upon  whose  silence  none  commented. 

"I  am  the  chosen  instrument,  as  you  all  know,"  continued 
the  Egyptian  prince.  "Messieurs,  fill  up  your  glasses.  I 
give  you  a  toast."  He  paused. 

"A  health,"  lie  cried,  raising  aloft  his  glass,  "to  the  men 
who  strike  the  first  blows  for  Egypt!  And — death  to  Lord 
Cromer!" 

The  conspirators  arose,  filling  the  room  with  loud  mani- 
festations of  their  approval. 

[296] 


The  Conspirators 

Aziz  tipped  his  glass  to  his  lips.  As  he  did  so,  O'Rourke, 
who  had  arisen  with  them,  took  his  life  in  his  hands  and 
fired.  The  crack  of  the  shot  and  the  simultaneous  crash  of 
the  wine-glass  as  it  was  shattered  in  the  prince's  fingers 
wrought  an  instantaneous  silence  where  a  moment  before 
there  had  been  loud  acclamations. 

In  the  momentary  stupefaction  that  seized  upon  the  con- 
spirators, numbing  them  mind  and  body,  for  the  instant, 
O'Rourke  leaped  to  the  doorway. 

He  held  a  revolver  in  each  hand.  Possibly  to  each  of  the 
nine  about  the  table  it  seemed  as  though  one  muzzle  was 
trained  upon  his  head  alone.  They  stood  helpless  for  a 
space.  O'Rourke,  chancing  to  observe  Arabi's  face,  could 
have  laughed  because  of  its  whitish  tinge. 

"Ye  will  please  not  move,  messieurs,"  he  announced 
loudly.  "I  have  the  drop  on  ye  all,  and  the  man  who 
thinks  I  cannot  see  him  move  will  find  out  his  mistake. 
Messieurs,  allow  me  to  give  ye  a  bit  of  advice:  Don't 
drink  that  health  ye've  left  untasted.  In  the  long  run 
'twill  be  the  most  unhealthy  drink  ye  ever  put  in  your 
bellies!" 

His  shoulders  touched  the  jamb  of  the  doorway. 

"Messieurs,"  he  said,  "I  wish  ye  the  diwle  of  an  uneasy 
night's  rest!" 

The  Irishman,  his  eyes  keenly  alert,  held  the  threshold. 
Once  across  that,  it  would  be  a  flight  for  his  life  —  hide  and 
seek,  he  forecast  it.  "And  'tis  the  O'Rourke  that'll  be  It, 
for  once,"  he  commented. 

But  he  had  reckoned  without  the  spirit  of  one  man  — 
Prince  Aziz,  who  seized  upon  what  he  thought  was  the  Irish- 
man's moment  of  relaxed  vigilance. 

O'Rourke,  however,  saw  the  Egyptian's  hand  go  to  his 
[297] 


Terence  O'Rourke,  Gentleman  Adventurer 

breast  pocket;  he  saw  also  the  shimmer  of  the  nickel-plated 
weapon  as  it  flashed  into  sight. 

At  once,  without  hesitation,  he  shot  him  through  the  head. 

"Let  that  warn  ye!"  he  cried.  "The  man  who  pursues 
me  will  get  the  selfsame  dose!" 

And  he  was  gone,  with  one  backward  jump  that  took  him 
through  the  doorway  and  clear  of  the  portiere. 

He  faced  around,  dashing  on  to  the  spot  where  an 
oblong  of  grayish-black  told  him  there  should  be  a  second 
door;  he  found  it,  gained  through  and  collided  with  a  man 
who  had  been  running  as  hastily  toward  the  banquet  hall 
as  O'Rourke  was  endeavoring  to  get  away  from  it. 

That  man  was  the  Nubian.  He  recoiled  from  O'Rourke; 
and  the  Irishman's  eye,  which  seemed  to  have  something  of 
the  faculty  of  a  cat's  in  the  dark  in  time  of  danger,  caught 
the  gleam  of  steel  as  the  Nubian  drew  a  dagger. 

The  inevitable  followed.  It  seemed  imperative.  He 
pistoled  the  fellow  ruthlessly. 

The  delay,  infinitesimal  as  was  the  part  of  a  second  it  had 
occupied,  was  more  than  serious.  The  dining  hall  was  in 
chaos;  the  shrill,  infuriated  howls  of  the  conspirators  filled 
the  building  with  an  indescribably  terrifying  clamor. 

O'Rourke  glanced  over  his  shoulder.  The  doorway  was 
blocked  with  a  struggling  mass  of  men,  fighting  to  be  the  first 
to  get  through  and  after  him.  He  chuckled. 

"Faith,  so  long  as  they  keep  that  up,"  he  said,  "I'm  sat- 
isfied!" 

And  he  dashed  on.  The  conspirators  disentangled  them- 
selves and  took  up  the  chase.  At  first  well  bunched,  it  was 
no  trouble  at  all  for  the  Irishman  to  locate  them,  and  to 
double  away. 

But,  as  he  blundered  headlong  through  empty  suite  after 

[298] 


The  Conspirators 

suite  of  rooms,  he  became  naturally  confused;  door  after 
door  invited  him  to  safety,  and  he  tore  through,  only  to  find 
that  he  was  apparently  no  nearer  the  end  than  at  first.  In 
no  place  did  he  seem  able  to  discover  a  passage  or  a  door 
leading  to  the  outer  air. 

Once,  indeed,  he  dashed  through  an  arched  opening  into 
the  court.  But  a  dark  figure  crouching  in  the  shadow  of  the 
acacia  fired  upon  him,  and  incontinently  O'Rourke  turned 
tail  and  took  up  the  thread  of  his  endless  weaving  in  and  out 
through  the  echoing  rooms  of  the  palace  of  Constantine 
Pasha. 

The  conspirators  scattered;  and  then  it  was  more  trouble- 
some to  divine  each  man's  whereabouts,  and  to  avoid  him. 
But  for  the  circumstance  that  they,  too,  were  confused  and 
led  astray  by  the  sound  of  their  own  comrades'  flying  foot- 
steps, O'Rourke  might  easily  enough  have  been  run  to  earth. 

He  heard,  once,  a  shot  and  a  reply,  and  smiled  grimly  to 
think  that  two  had  mistaken  one  another  for  himself.  He 
hoped  their  aim  had  been  more  accurate  than  that  of  the  man 
beneath  the  acacia. 

But,  at  last,  they  began  to  close  in  upon  him;  up  to  a  cer- 
tain point  he  had  endeavored  to  keep  to  the  ground  floor, 
knowing  beyond  doubt  that  all  doors  leading  to  the  street 
would  be  found  there.  But  gradually  they  forced  him  from 
one  room  to  another,  until  at  last  he  was  obliged  to  put  the 
butt  of  his  weapon  into  the  face  of  a  too-fortunate  pursuer  — 
thereby  rendering  him  speechless  with  a  broken  jaw  —  and 
to  take  a  staircase  to  the  upper  story  in  four  jumps. 

And  then,  again,  began  the  gradual  closing-in  process. 
Once  above  the  ground  floor  O'Rourke  confined  his  efforts 
to  an  attempt  to  regain  the  room  wherein  he  had  been  re- 
ceived by  the  goddess  of  Eygptian  night,  knowing  that  from 

[299] 


Terence  O'R&urke,  Gentleman  Adventurer 

there  led  a  staircase  to  the  lower  private  entry,  where  a 
dear  would  give  him  exit  to  the  street 

For  aH  he  could  determine  to  the  contrary,  however,  that 
loom  had  never  existed,  save  in  his  fancy ;  suite  after  suite  he 
tried,  desperately,  only  to  find  one  passage  after  another 
ctosed  to  him;  until,  at  last,  he  stood  cornered,  choking 
for  breath  and  disheartened,  in  an  open  closet. 

On  either  side  he  could  hear  the  trampling  feet  of  the  con- 
spirafcM?s>  as  they  searched  and  prodded  each  several  recess 
t<?  poke  him  forth  from  hiding.  He  dared  not  move  a  pace 
out  of  his  refuge;  and  if  he  remained  he  was  foredoomed  to 
discovery. 

And  then  —  welly  then  there  would  be  trouble,  indeed. 
"A  shindy,"  he  called  it,  with  a  rousing  of  his  blood  at  the 
thought  of  battle.  He  was,  for  a  little  space,  debating  the 
advisability  of  sallying  out  and  changing  roles  with  his 
enemies,  becoming  the  hunter  instead  of  the  hunted. 

It  seemed  at  the  time  quite  feasible,  when  all  else  seemed 
hopeless.  He  wetted  his  dry  lips  with  the  tip  of  his  tongue. 
"It  might  be  done,"  he  whispered  encouragement  to  him- 
self. "  It  might  be  done." 

He  had  nine  bullets  left;  there  were  eight  pursuers;  he  dared 
not  miss  one  single  shot  Beyond  doubt,  the  others  were  all 
well  armed  —  some,  doubtless,  with  two  revolvers,  even. 

No;  it  would  be  madness,  folly!  But,  then,  everything  he 
had  done  that  night  had  been  madness  and  folly;  not  a  single 
action  that  he  could  recall  had  been  of  a  nature  that  could 
be  characterized  as  anything  but  insane. 

And  the  chase  was  fearfully  near  at  hand.  He  drew  him- 
self together.  It  was  now  too  late  to  take  the  initiative; 
they  were  in  the  next  room. 

He  poised  one  revolver.  The  first  to  pass  across  the 

[300] 


The  Conspirators 

moonlit  lattice  by  the  door  was  to  die.  It  might  keep  the 
rest  back  for  a  little  time;  and  —  anything  might  happen 
in  a  little  time. 

He  held  the  gun  ready  —  and  heard,  leading  the  others, 
the  rustle  of  the  woman's  skirts. 

Mam'selle  passed  across  the  luminous  lattice  and  came 
straight  toward  him.  Afterward  he  wondered  if  she  had 
really  seen  him  from  the  first,  or  in  some  other  way  been 
made  acquainted  with  his  hiding  place. 

For  she  passed  almost  directly  to  the  recess  —  the  sole 
place  in  the  room  admitting  of  even  a  temporary  conceal- 
ment —  put  out  her  hand  and  touched  his  face,  drew  it  back 
without  a  sound,  and  turned  her  back  to  him. 

"The  next  room,  perhaps,  messieurs!"  she  cried  breath- 
lessly. "Hasten!  Ah,  hasten!" 

O'Rourke  did  not  stir.  He  waited  patiently  —  though 
patience  was  no  virtue;  there  was  no  alternative  in  his  case. 
He  waited.  Mam'selle  had  gone  on  with  the  others,  yet 
presently  he  heard  —  as  he  had  known  he  would  presently 
hear — the  tap-tap  of  her  little  slippers  and  the  soft  jrou- 
frou  of  her  garments. 

She  entered  through  the  door  by  which  she  had  left, 
stood  for  an  instant  looking  out  through  the  lattice,  draw- 
ing her  skirts  tightly  about  her  with  one  hand,  the  other 
being  pressed  to  her  lips,  as  though  she  feared  to  give 
them  play  for  utterance.  Without  glancing  in  his  direction, 
she  whispered  hoarsely:  "Monsieur!" 

"Mam'selle!"  he  responded,  advancing. 

"Quick!"  she  cried.  "The  next  room  but  one.  I  will 
follow.  They  have  gone  through  to  the  other  wing.  For 
two  seconds,  only,  we  are  safe." 

Without  demur  the  man  obeyed. 
[301] 


Terence  O'Rourke,  Gentleman  Adventurer 

Tiptoeing  lightly,  he  gained  the  farther  room  that  she  had 
indicated;  and  she  moved  as  lightly  behind  him,  almost 
without  a  sound.  And,  then,  in  silence,  she  drew  him  by  the 
hand  to  the  rear  wall,  where  she  pushed  aside  some  rotting 
draperies  and  disclosed  the  door  that  he  had  sought  and, 
even  in  this  very  room,  had  missed. 

In  deference  to  her  silent  command,  he  stepped  boldly 
down  into  darkness,  upon  a  winding  staircase  of  wrought 
iron;  as  he  descended,  he  heard  her  shut  the  door  behind 
them  and  shoot  home  a  bolt. 

Below,  still  mutely,  she  guided  him  through  total  darkness 
to  a  second  door;  it  likewise  was  bolted,  and  the  bolts  had 
rusted  into  a  firm  resistance. 

But  O'Rourke's  strong  fingers  forced  them  back;  he 
found  a  latch,  lifted  it,  and  the  door  swung  open,  the 
blessed  moonlight  flooding  the  little  entry. 

O'Rourke  drank  in  the  good,  clean  air  in  great  gulps. 
For  the  first  time,  the  woman  spoke. 

"It  is  a  secret  entry,"  she  said.  "The  door  above  is 
bolted,  and  there  is  no  door  upon  this  floor.  You  are  safe 
to  rest  yourself  for  a  moment,  O  mon  colonel;  but  do  not 
endanger  yourself  further  by  lingering." 

Her  tone  was  cold,  her  words  seemed  forced  and  stilted. 
And  she  stood  in  shadow,  where  he  might  not  see  her. 

"I  go,"  he  responded  softly,  "in  one  moment.  I  have 
something  to  say,  mam'selle." 

"Say  it,"  she  said  brusquely,  "and  go,  monsieur  —  go!" 

"Very  well.  I'm  returning  to  Shepheard's.  To-morrow 
I  shall  stay  in  me  room,  armed,  all  the  day.  I  shall  eat  noth- 
ing that  me  body-servant  does  not  himself  prepare." 

There  was  a  pause  while  he  hesitated. 

"That  were  wise,"  the  woman  approved  listlessly. 

[302] 


The  Conspirators 

"In  the  evening,"  he  continued,  "I  shall  send  word  of  what 
I  have  to-night  learned  to  the  authorities." 

She  did  not  reply. 

"  I  tell  ye  this,  mam'selle,  in  gratitude.  If  it  were  possible 
for  me  to  keep  silence  and  retain  me  honor;  if  it  were  possible 
for  me  to  keep  silence  and  do  me  duty  by  me  fellow  men  — 
believe  me,  mam'selle,  I  would  do  that.  It  is  not  possible. 
This  monstrous  crime  that  is  here  plotted  must  be  crushed. 
.  .  .  And  so  I  give  ye  time,  mam'selle,  to  get  ye  to  safety." 

"My  thanks,  monsieur,"  she  returned,  without  emotion. 

Still  the  man  lingered. 

"I  —  I  killed  Prince  Aziz,  I  fear,"  he  said.  "I  could  not 
help  it.  It  was  his  life  or  mine." 

"I  fear  .  .  .  you  did  .  .  .  not,"  she  replied,  faltering.  "He 
may  live  ...  I  am  betrothed  to  him  and  —  and  I  do  not  love 
him,  monsieur!" 

O'Rourke  hesitated;  there  seemed  to  be  nothing  more  to 
be  said,  and  yet  he  felt  that  there  was,  to  the  contrary,  much 
that  might  be  said,  were  he  but  able  to  find  the  words  to  say 
it  in.  At  length,  diffidently,  he  put  out  a  hand,  caught  the 
woman's,  and  bent  to  kiss  it.  She  stood  passive;  her 
fingers  rested  unresisting  on  his  broad  palm.  The  clear 
moonlight  fell  softly  upon  the  dazzling  whiteness  of  her 
countenance ;  her  eyes  were  fixed  upon  him  steadfastly,  with 
a  regard  inscrutable,  profound,  bewildering;  even  in  the 
deep  shadows  that  lay  beneath  her  brows,  he  could  see  that 
they  burned  with  a  curious,  almost  an  uncanny  glow.  He 
felt  oddly  drawn  towards  her,  irresistibly  tempted  to  clasp 
her  in  his  arms  .  .  .  With  an  effort  he  recollected  himself. 

The  woman  saw  his  lips  move  mutely;  they  framed  a  word 
she  did  not  hear,  nor  would  have  recognized  had  she  heard. 
"Sure,"  O'Rourke  comforted  himself,  "'tis  a  most  potent 

[303] 


Terence  O'Rourke,  Gentleman  Adventurer 

talisman  and  powerful  to  make  me  immune  to  strange  beau- 
ties." And  he  repeated  inwardly  the  syllables  of  the  name 
of  her  to  whom  he  had  sworn  loyalty.  "Beatrix!  .  .  .  Bea- 
trix! .  .  .  Beatrix!" 

And  suddenly  he  found  himself  stumbling  off  down  the 
rough-cobbled  thoroughfare,  his  brain  all  a-whirl  and  the 
heart  of  him  like  a  live  coal  burning  in  his  breast.  After  a  few 
yards  he  came  to  the  entrance  to  a  tortuous,  reeking  alleyway, 
leading  off  towards  the  European  quarters;  and  it  seemed 
best  that  he  should  trust  himself  to  its  dark  mercies  rather 
than  stick  to  the  beaten  ways  and  run  the  chance  of  being 
overtaken  by  the  conspirators.  "'Tis  no  use/'  he  philos- 
ophized benevolently,  "killing  the  lot  of  them  outright.  'Tis 
no-  butcher  ye  are,  Terence." 

In  a  shadow  he  halted,  turned  and  looked  back  at  the  high, 
blind  yellow  walls  of  the  Palace  Constantine  —  unmarred 
in  all  their  visible  extent  by  balcony  or  window  or  other  open- 
ing save  that  little  postern  door  whence  he  had  escaped. 
And  now  even  that  was  closed, 

Dawn  was  breaking  when  he  reached  Shepheard's,  unde- 
terred. He  roused  Danny  and  stirred  him  to  action,  with 
liberal  profanity.  "  'Tis  in  Alexandria  we  must  be  be  noon," 
he  informed  the  bewildered  red-headed  one.  "I'll  wire 
Doone  Pasha  of  this  business  from  there.  'Tis  a  sight 
easier  than  'twould  be  to  keep  a  whole  skin  in  Cairo !  .  .  .  A 
prince  of  Egypt,  shot  down  be  me  own  hand,,  d'ye  under- 
stand, me  bye  ?  Faith,  'twill  be  many  a  long  day  ere  Egypt 
is  favored  with  the  prisince  of  the  O'Rourke  again,  let  me 
tett  yet" 


CHAPTER  XII 

THE  CONSUL-GENERAL 

BILLY  SENET'S  observations  were  always  illuminating  and 
sometimes  very  instructive.  For  instance,  shortly  after  his 
installation  in  the  Tangiers  consulate,  he  wrote  home  to  his 

sister: 

This  is  a  great  place.  You  ought  to  see  it.  The  city  itself  iis 
the  most  beautiful  spot  on  the  footstool,  I  .bet  a  red  apple.  It 
looks  like  a  week's  washing  spread  out  to  .dry  on  a  green,  grassy 
bank  —  white  and  dazzling,  you  know;  and  it  smells  the  worst 
ever;  and  it's  as  full  as  it  can  stick  of  the  very  purest,  old-vatted 
Original  Sin.  It  gets  me,  both  going  and  coming.  Tell  the 
truth,  I'd  have  trouble  morning,  noon  and  night,  if  it  wasn't  for  a 
queer  chap  I've  run  across  at  the  Hotel  d'Angleterre. 

His  name  is  O'Rourke —  Colonel  Terence  O'Rourke —  and 
he's  the  goods  for  mine.  He's  six  foot  or  more  of  lean  strength,, 
straight  as  an  Indian,  brown  as  a  berry,  minds  his  own  business, 
and,  if  half  the  yarns  they  spin  about  him  are  true,  fears  neither 
God,  man,  nor  devil.  I've  taken  the  biggest  kind  of  a  shine  t» 
him,  and  he  tolerates  me,  and  helps  me  along  with  advice,  inas- 
much as  he's  been  all  over,  he's  qualified  to  dispense  the  same 
to  yours  truly, 

WILLIAM  EVERETT  SENET,  -C.-G. 

Senet  was  fhe  very  latest  specimen  of  a  Consul-General 
sent  by  the  United  States  of  America  to  Morocco,  and  'he  was 
young  —  excessively  so  —  for  a  consul-general:  a  well-built 
man,  with  steady,  brown  eyes,  an  open-air  look,  and  a  faith 
in  his  fellow  man  that  had  been  badly  shaken  since  his 
arrival  at  Tangiers. 

[305] 


Terence  O'Rourke,  Gentleman  Adventurer 

For  Senet  was  born  honest  —  which,  though  he  himself 
had  no  suspicion  of  the  fact,  was  the  precise  reason  why  he 
had  been  chosen  for  the  post  he  then  filled.  His  immediate 
predecessor  had  been  a  man  of  placid  instincts,  untroubled 
by  any  manner  of  scruples  whatsoever,  and  had  grown  rich 
by  selling  protection  papers  to  any  one  who  came  along  with 
cash-on-the-nail  purchase  money. 

All  of  which,  of  course,  had  been  exceedingly  detrimental 
to  the  moral  tone  of  the  United  States  Consular  Service  in 
Morocco. 

And  so  a  paternal  government  had  selected  Mr.  William 
Everett  Senet  to  adorn  the  vacant  consulship  at  Tangiers, 
and  to  prove  to  the  honest  Moor  that  there  really  were 
honest  Americans,  after  all. 

Senet  had  accepted  with  considerable  relief;  he  happened 
to  be  wanting  to  get  away  from  home  for  reasons  of  his  very 
own,  and  he  fancied  that  a  residence  in  a  strange,  semi- 
barbaric  land  like  Morocco  would  fill  his  life  with  new  in- 
terests, and  help  him  to  forget  certain  matters  which  he 
earnestly  desired  to  forget. 

Item:  One  American  girl,  who  had  married  a  German 
title.  Item:  Her  eyes,  which  haunted  the  young  man.  Item: 
A  nasty  rumor  which  he  had  heard  from  some  gossipy  Ameri- 
cans returning  from  a  residence  in  Berlin,  and  which  had 
been  confirmed  by  discreetly  vague  paragraphs  in  the  New 
York  papers.  And  there  were  other  items,  all  disturbing. 

But  once  in  Morocco,  Senet  found  work  sufficiently  en- 
grossing to  send  him  to  bed  at  bedtime  so  tired  that  'he  went 
promptly  and  sweetly  to  sleep  and  forgot  to  lie  awake  and 
watch  for  the  coming  of  the  eyes,  with  their  distractingly 
beautiful,  serious,  and  troubled  expression  that  so  nearlv 
maddened  the  young  American. 

[306] 


The  Consul-General 

But  then,  too,  he  found  a  great  many  things  to  bother  him 
—  little  reminiscences  of  his  predecessor's  reign  that  just  nat- 
urally cropped  up  in  the  day's  work  —  and  sickened  Senet. 

He  voiced  his  resentment  of  such  a  state  of  affairs  one  night 
on  the  terrace  of  the  Hotel  d'Angleterre,  where  he  sat  enjoying 
the  coolness,  and  the  view,  and  a  Scotch  whiskey-and-soda, 
with  Colonel  Terence  O'Rourke. 

O'Rourke  himself  was  sojourning  in  Tangiers  under  pro- 
test, and,  by  that  token,  not  enjoying  his  stay  to  any  over- 
whelming extent.  For  which  reason,  if  for  no  other,  he  had 
interested  himself  in  the  fledgling  Consul-General,  who 
seemed  to  be  trying  so  hard  to  do  the  decent  thing  in  a  land 
where  everybody  else  seemed  to  be  striving  equally  as  hard 
with  a  totally  contrary  end  in  view. 

And  the  Irishman  was  by  way  of  liking  young  Senet 
rather  thoroughly,  both  because  the  American  was  distinctly 
likable,  and  because  we  are  always  inclined  to  like  those 
whom  it  has  cost  us  some  effort  to  favor. 

When  Senet  had  maintained  a  meditative  silence  unbroken 
for  several  minutes,  O'Rourke  turned  to  him,  grinning  in 
friendly  wise. 

"What's  troubling  ye  now?"  he  inquired,  with  emphasis 
on  the  "now."  "That  is,"  he  stipulated,  "if  'tis  not  poking 
the  nose  of  me  into  your  private  affairs." 

"Oh,  not  at  all,  sir,"  replied  Senet  respectfully,  sitting  up. 
"It's  nothing  new  —  same  old  story.  About  a  week  ago," 
he  added  with  a  queer  little  laugh,  "I  granted  protection 
papers  to  a  fellow  who  had  a  right  to  them  —  a  petty  leather 
merchant  over  Ceuta-way.  To  his  infinite  surprise,  I 
wouldn't  take  a  cent,  although  he  assured  me  that  it  was 
customary,  and  all  that. 

"Now,  to-day  stalks  into  the  consulate  this  chap's  caid  — 
[307] 


really  a  very  impressive  and  distinguished-looking  old  Moor 

—  and  offers  me  one  hundred  pounds  if  I'll  remove  the  pro- 
tection.    I  explained  that  I  wasn't  doing  business  on  that 
basis;  and  he  gradually  bid  me  up  to  five  hundred  pounds 

—  finally  flung  out  in  a  towering  rage  because  I  wouldn't 
do  t'other  chap  'dirt.     Said  that  my  predecessor  would  hare 
jumped  at  one  hundred  pounds.    As  near  as  I  can  figure  it 
out,  the  caid  and  the  bashaw  between  them  have  a  grouch 
against  my  leather  merchant,  and  want  to  -chuck  him  into 
prison,  bastinado  him,  and  confiscate  his  property.    They 
don't  dare  touch  him  while  he  has  my  protection,  and  it's 
worth  twenty -five  hundred  dollars  to  them  to  have  it  removed. 
I  told  the  caid  that  sort  of  thing  was  what  lost  the  other  con- 
sul his  job,  but  he  didn't  or  couldn't  understand,  and  was 
pleased  to  take  it  as  a  personal  affront." 

Again  Senet  laughed  —  compassionately  and  wonderingly. 
"Now,  what  are  you  going  to  do  with  people  that  behave 
that  way?"  he  asked. 

Q'Rourke  chuckled  grimly.  "Ye've  a  lot  to  learn,  me 
boy,"  he  told  him;  and  sat  quiet  for  a  space,  looking  rather 
wistfully  out  to  sea. 

From  the  terrace  of  the  Hdtd  d'Angleterre,  pretty  much 
all  Tangiers  slopes  down  steeply  to  the  harbor.  In  the  moon- 
light the  low,  white  houses  shone  brightly  in  a  way  resembling 
a  glacier  seamed  with  narrow  purple  rifts,  and  crevasses,  and 
ravines  —  which  are  the  streets  of  Tangiers. 

Down  on  the  harbor  front  the  electric  arcs  were  blazing 
fitfully;  by  the  wharves  and  at  anchor  in  the  roadstead,  slant 
lateen  sails  of  feluccas  gleamed  weirdly  in  the  moon's  soft 
radiance,  and  a  mail  steamer  just  in  from  Gibraltar  looked 
like  some  monstrous  crawling  white  bug  studded  with  many- 
colored  eyes. 

[308] 


The  Consul-General 

The  Straits  were  very  calm  that  night;  they  seemed  a  sheet 
of  clear,  black  glass,  star  strewn;  far  out  rested  a  blur  of 
faintly  luminous  haze,  behind  which  Gibraltar  itself  loomed 
dark  and  menacing.  The  night  was  bland  and  silky,  very 
warm  and  still  with  a  sort  of  a  sibilant  silence,  disturbed  only 
oy  the  long  soughing  of  the  surf,  or  by  the  distant  tinkling  of 
iiule  bells  as  some  belated  caravan  approached  along  the 
Jetuan  road,  or,  again,  by  the  rattle  of  chips  and  the  busy 
whirr  oi  the  roulette  wheels  in  the  salon  of  the  Hotel  dJAn- 
gleterre. 

It  was  all  very  mysterious  —  Oriental  and  fascinating; 
and  especially  so  to  O'Rourke,  who  was  never  really  content 
unless  in  a  tropic  land.  He  s-at  there  and  drank  in  the  at- 
mosphere with  appreciation  before  he  answered  Senet.  And 
when  he  did  again  open  his  lips,  it  was  to  sigh  before  he 
paraphrased  himself. 

"'Tis  the  divvle  of  a  deal  ye  have  to  learn,  lad,"  he  said, 
with  some  envy  in  his  tone.  "One  of  these  days  ye'll  wake 
up  to  the  fact  that  ye  have  acquired  the  least  suspicion  of  an 
insight  into  Moorish  character.  But  'tis  a  far  day  from 
this,  now  I'm  telling  ye.  ...  I  know  ye'll  not  be  taking  this 
amiss,  me  son,,  but,"  he  pronounced,  authoritatively,  "at 
present  ye  are  as  innocent  as  —  as  —  well,  more  innocent 
than  anything  I  call  to  mind  this  side  of  Gibraltar.  Be 
thankful  'tis  so;  innocence  is  a  gloss  that  too  soon  wears  off." 

Young  Senet  bagan  to  wag  his  head  argumentatively. 
"Well,"  he  began,  "of  course,  I  know  I'm  new — " 

"Ye  are,"  O'Rourke  affirmed  solemnly,  his  twinkling  eyes 
robbing  his  words  of  all  suspicion  of  offensiveness.  "Green 
—  that's  the  word.  Me  boy,  ye're  no  better  than  a  salad. 
'Tis  truth  for  ye  —  and  all  for  no  reason  in  the  world  but 
that  ye're  dacint  and  a  gentleman.  Now,  I  mean  ye  no 

[309] 


Terence  O'Rourke,  Gentleman  Adventurer 

harm  by  saying  this;  but  what  ye  know  about  the  Moors  and 
the  rest  of  us  here  in  Tangiers  I  could  put  in  me  eye  without 
so  much  as  winking.  Um-m,  now,  don't  be  getting  wrathy 
with  me;  'tis  for  your  own  good  that  I'm  putting  ye  wise. 
Observe." 

He  waved  a  hand  gracefully  toward  the  Rock,  that  seemed 
a  low-lying,  threatening  thunder  cloud  on  the  horizon. 

"That,"  he  laid  down  the  law,  "is  the  home  of  the  nearest 
respectable  white  man  I  call  to  mind,  barring  the  two  of  us, 
Mr.  Senet.  This  side  of  the  Straits  we're  all  tarred  with  the 
same  feather,  speaking  generally;  every  last  one  of  us  is  a 
swindler,  or  otherwise  declasse,  according  to  the  sex.  'Tis 
not  for  the  beautiful  climate  and  the  outrageous  smells  of 
Tangiers  that  we're  squatting  here,  but  because  Morocco  has 
neglected  —  very  thoughtfully — to  make  extradition  treaties 
with  other  countries.  So  we  can't  be  haled  away  to  suffer  for 
our  naughtiness.  Take  meself ,  even  —  I'm  bold  enough  to 
hold  meself  a  little  better  than  the  general  run,  but  I'd  hate  to 
meet  up  with  certain  persons  on  European  soil,  just  now." 

"I  don't  believe  it!"  cried  Senet,  promptly  loyal  to  his 
new-found  friend. 

"'Tis  so.  Not  that  'twas  me  own  fault,  I  admit.  I  was 
dragged,  in  a  way  of  speaking,  into  a  little  shindy  in  Cairo. 
A  herd  of  one-horse  conspirators  were  planning  to  indulge 
Egypt  in  a  second  edition  of  the  Indian  Mutiny,  a  while  back. 
I  refused  to  mix  with  them,  and  wan  of  them  jumped  me. 
'Twas  his  life  or  mine,  and  —  I  plugged  him.  Misfortu- 
nately,  he  happened  to  be  a  prince  of  the  Khedival  household. 
So  'tis  meself  that's  wanted;  and  'tis  here  I  must  be  waiting 
till  I  have  a  chance  to  sneak  through  Suez,  quietlike  and  un- 
beknownst to  the  Cairenes  that  are  thirsting  for  me  blood." 

Senet  sat  up,  his  face  shining.     "You  don't  mean  to  say," 


The  Consul-General 

he  cried  excitedly,  "that  you're  the  man  who  defeated  the 
Egyptian  conspiracy"? 

"The  same,"  placidly  affirmed  O'Rourke. 

"But  England  should  be  grateful—" 

"Perhaps  England  is,"  allowed  O'Rourke  with  caution. 
"But  faith,  Egypt  is  not!  In  Cairo  or  Alexandria,  sure  and 
me  life  would  not  be  worth  the  ice  in  me  glass  here." 

"I'm  glad  I  know  you,  sir,"  said  Senet  warmly;  adding, 
after  a  moment:  "But  why  did  you  not  go  east,  in  the  first 
place,  when  you  had  to  fly?" 

O'Rourke  looked  away  —  out  to  sea  again.  He  answered 
in  a  tone  more  sober,  from  which  the  raillery  was  gone. 

"There  was  a  woman  in  the  case,  Senet,"  he  explained 
softly.  "She  —  well,  she  took  passage  on  the  Eastern- 
bound  steamer.  So,  faith,  the  O'Rourke  came  west!" 

He  shook  his  head  and  called  to  the  waiter  to  replenish 
their  glasses.  "But,"  he  added,  "I'm  not  the  only  one. 
Far  be  it  from  me  to  say  wrong  of  any  woman,  Senet;  but 
there's  not  one  in  Tangiers  that  I  care  to  see  ye  dancing 
attendance  upon,  as  ye  did  on  that  handsome  Mrs.  Challoner 
at  the  hop  night  before  last.  Did  ye  know  that  she's  wanted 
in  England  for  blackmail,  lad?" 

"I  did  not,"  said  Senet  gravely. 

"'Tis  true.  Steer  clear  of  them  all.  I  mind—"  He 
paused  and  ran  his  hand  across  his  eyes,  as  though  collecting 
his  thoughts.  "Ye  were  not  down  to  the  landing  when  the 
steamer  came  in,  this  afternoon?" 

"No;  I  had  to  go  over  towards  Ceuta,  and  got  back  just 
hi  time  for  dinner." 

"Then  ye  did  .not  see  her.  Faith,  boy,  a  woman  came 
in  on  that  boat  whose  beauty  would  pay  any  man  for  his 
hereafter  —  as  young  and  fresh  and  innocent-looking  as  a 


Terence  O'Rourke,  Gentleman  Adventurer 

rosebud,  Senet,  and  the  fear  of  God-knows-what  so  tight 
about  her  heart  she  could  scarcely  breathe." 

"How  do  you  know  that?"  demanded  Senet  contentiously. 
"I'm  not  questioning  your  word  about  these  others,  Colonel 
O'Rourke,  but  it  seems  to  me  you're  going  out  of  your  way 
to  condemn  a  woman  you've  never  laid  eyes  on  before.'* 

"But  I  have,  sir,"  O'Rourke  told  him,  with  a  tolerant 
chuckle.  "I  saw  her  year  before  last,  in  Berlin.  Now, she's 
here  under  an  alias.  Does  that  speak  well  for  her?" 

"An  assumed  name?" 

"Just  that.  She's  registered—"  O'Rourke  broke  off 
motioning  quietly  toward  the  piazza  of  the  hotel,  whereon  a 
woman's  figure  stood  clearly  silhouetted  against  the  lights  of 
the  main  entrance.  "If  I  mistake  not,  there  she  is  now," 
he  said. 

Senet  looked.  The  woman's  features  were  indistinguish- 
able, because  of  the  obscurity;  but  there  was  that  about  her 
form  and  the  carriage  of  her  head,  instinct  with  a  supreme 
grace,  that  set  the  younger  man's  heart  to  going  like  a  trip- 
hammer. 

He  put  his  hand  across  the  table  and  clutched  O'Rourke's 
imperatively.  His  glass  fell  over  and  spilled  its  contents 
unheeded. 

"What  name?"  Senet  demanded  hoarsely.  "Under 
what  name  did  she  register?  And  who  is  she?" 

O'Rourke  elevated  his  brows  in  surprise.  "Faith,  what's 
this?"  he  wondered.  "She's  on  the  register,"  he  proceeded, 
watching  Senet's  face  narrowly,  "as  Mrs.  Ellen  Dean  and 
maid,  U.  S.  A." 

O'Rourke  sat  without  remonstrance  while  the  younger 
man's  ringer  nails  dug  into  his  hand.  "I've  touched  a  live 
nerve,"  he  commented  to  himself. 


The  Consul-General 

"But  — but  her  title?" 

"Did  I  mention  a  title,  lad:?  'Tis  true  —  she  owns  one. 
She  is  the  Countess  of  Seyn-Altberg." 

His  words  fell  upon  unheeding  ears,  for  the  woman  had 
taken  a  forward  step,  and  now  stood  in  the  full  glare  of  the 
moonlight;  her  head  was.  held  high,  so  that  every  perfect 
feature  was  clearly  outlined  in  the  mellow  light  —  and  the 
youthful  consul-general  needed  no  other  identification. 

He  sat  very  still,  almost  holding  his  breath,  for  a  little 
while;  then,  abruptly,  as  though  he  had  just  recollected,  he 
took  his  hand  from  O'Rourke's  and  sat  bolt  upright,  breath- 
ing hard  and  trembling  in,  every  muscle. 

The  woman  turned  her  profile  to  those  whom  she  had 
not  noticed;  she  seemed  to  be  waiting,,  listening  as  if  for 
some  dreaded  footstep.  Senet  got  to  his  feet,  somehow, 
and  stumbled  toward  her.  O'Rourke  heard  him  grind  a 
word  or  two  between  his  teeth,  chokingly. 

"Oh,  my  God!"  cried  Senet. 

And  O'Rourke,  listening,  nodded  his  head  in  sage  sym- 
pathy. "There,"  he  muttered  to/  his  cigar,  "goes  a  man 
whose  heart  has  been,  broken  —  and  'tis  not  be  way  of  being 
mended,  I'm,  thinking." 

The  adventurer  shafted  uneasily  in  his  seat,  watching  the 
retreating  form  of  the  consul-general  as  he  almost  haltingly 
progressed  across  the  lawn  to  the  hotel  steps  whereon  stood 
the  Countess  of  Seyn-Altberg. 

Senet  had  come  up  to  the  steps  and  put  a  hand  for  support 
on  one  of  the  newel  posts  ere  the  woman  relaxed  from  her 
expectant  attitude  and  turned  toward  him;  so  that  his  coming 
was  entirely  without  warning,  so  far  as  she  was  concerned. 

"Nellie!"  said  Senet  pleadingly. 

She   started   and   seemed   to   shrink   away   from   him. 

1 3*3  1 


Terence  O'Rourke,  Gentleman  Adventurer 

Because  of  the  stillness  of  the  night  their  voices  came  very 
clearly  to  O'Rourke,  who  squirmed  because  he  was  uninten- 
tionally eavesdropping,  and  could  see  no  way  to  withdraw 
without  attracting  attention  to  himself. 

"Nellie!"  said  young  Senet  again;  he  stretched  forth  his 
arms  toward  her,  forgetting  the  time  and  place  —  forgetting 
everything  in  the  gladness  of  his  heart  because  this  woman 
stood  before  him. 

The  woman  stepped  back  into  the  shadow;  which,  how- 
ever, might  not  hide  the  lines  that  dismay  and  some  emotion 
nearly  akin  to  terror  had  graven  upon  her  face.  Her  eyes 
stared  at  the  young  man  as  though  he  had  been  an  appari- 
tion —  as,  indeed,  each  was  to  the  other  —  a  ghost  risen  out 
of  the  dead  days  of  their  youth. 

And  then,  suddenly,  and  still  without  speaking,  she  came 
forward  and  clasped  Senet's  extended  hand  in  both  her  own. 

"Oh!"  she  cried  in  a  tone  that  was  half  a  sob.  "You  — 
you  startled  me  so,  Will  —  Mr.  Senet!" 

"Will,"  Senet  insisted  gravely. 

"But  —  but,"  she  floundered  on,  desperately,  "it's  — 
it's  such  a  time  since  we  have  seen  each  other  —  isn't  it,  Will  ? 
You  —  you  must  come  and  see  me,  some  other  time.  I  — 
I  shall  be  awfully  glad,  you  know,  to  talk  over  the  old  times 

—  the  good  times  we  used  to  have  together,  Will  — " 
"Nellie,"  interrupted  the  consul-general  gently,  "you're 

in  some  trouble,  dear — " 

" Bless  the  boy ! "  thought  O'Rourke.  "He'd  have  choked 
if  he'd  kept  that  'dear'  down  another  minute!" 

"  Oh,  no  —  no,  not  at  all,  Will.    I'm  simply  not  very  well 

—  I'm  here  for  my  health,  you  know  —  and  your  appearing 
so  suddenly  startled  me." 

"Tell  me  what  it  is,"  persisted  Senet,  "and  if  I  can  do 


The  Consul-General 

anything  —  anything  in  all  the  world,  Nellie  —  you  know 
I'll  do  it." 

"I  know  —  I  know,  Will."  The  woman  glanced  around 
apprehensively,  as  though  she  feared  a  listener.  O'Rourke 
slouched  in  his  chair,  motionless  and  very  miserable  because 
he  couldn't  get  away  decently. 

"I  know;  but  there  is  no  trouble, Will — really, there  isn't. 
You'll  come  to-morrow  —  call  to-morrow  afternoon,  won't 
you,  and  we  can  have  a  nice,  long,  comfortable  talk,  Will?" 

"Why,  yes;  but  you're  not  expecting  anybody  now?" 

"No  —  no  —  but  I'm  very  tired,  and  —  and  I  must  go 
to  bed,  now.  You'll  come  to-morrow?  Yes?  And  you'll 
go  now,  won't  you,  like  a  dear  boy?" 

Senet  gazed  full  in  her  face. 

"I'll  go  —  yes,"  he  conceded,  "because  you  want  to  get 
rid  of  me,  Nellie.  I  —  I  haven't  any  right  to  resent  it,  I  sur> 
pose.  Good  night." 

He  wheeled  abruptly  and  went  directly  down  the  walk  to 
the  street,  without  once  looking  back  or  even  casting  a  side- 
long glance  at  O'Rourke.  The  woman  stood  swaying  for  a 
moment,  then  darted  into  the  hotel. 

O'Rourke  turned  his  eyes  to  the  seas  again;  the  mist  was 
spreading,  he  observed  —  spreading  and  rising  in  silvery 
coils;  Gibraltar  was  no  longer  visible.  Only  the  footsteps 
of  a  man  scrambing  along  the  narrow  street  at  the  foot  of 
the  terrace  broke  the  silence. 

"There,"  said  the  Irishman  to  himself,  "is  a  woman  whose 
pardon  I  should  ask.  She  is  suffering,  yes — but  for  another's 
sin,  not  her  own.  She's  a  good  woman,  if  ever  I  knew  one." 

He  swallowed  the  drink  at  his  elbow.  "Poor  Senet!"  he 
muttered,  rising  and  going  into  the  gambling  salon  of  the 
Hdtel  (TAngleterre. 


CHAPTER  XIII 

THE  VOICES  OF  THE  NIGHT 

THE  tables  were  fairly  well  filled;  the  European  element 
in  Tangiers  was  amusing  itself  in  the  only  way  it  knew.  For 
there  is  nothing  in  particular  to  do  in  Tangiers,  after  the  mail 
boat  has  come  in  and  the  home  newspapers  have  been  hun- 
grily devoured  —  every  blessed  line  of  them,  even  to  the  ad- 
vertisements. 

There  are,  of  course,  pig-stickings  and  picnics;  but  after  a 
while  these  pall  upon  one;  and  the  small  talk  of  the  exiles  is 
not  exhilarating  after  one  has  learned  all  the  noisome  details 
that  led  up  to  this  or  that  person's  selection  of  Tangiers  as  a 
permanent  residence. 

And  when  one  is  tired,  the  tables  are  always  open  in  the 
big,  gilded  salon  —  open  and  dispensing  their  opiate  of  fever- 
ish excitement  that  deadens  one's  sense  of  degradation  and 
one's  heartache. 

O'Rourke  strolled  among  the  tables,  watching  the  play, 
but  without  any  great  interest;  his  mind  was  filled  with  specu- 
lation about  the  Consul- General  and  the  Countess  of  Seyn- 
Altberg;  he  was  recalling  the  little  scene  out  there  on  the 
piazza,  and  wondering  what  it  all  meant. 

One  thing  was  very  evident  to  him,  —  that  Senet  was  des- 
perately and  hopelessly  in  love  with  the  Countess.  But  the 
whole  affair  was  something  of  an  enigma,  and  O'Rourke 
found  himself  vainly  racking  his  brains  to  recall  something 
that  he  had  once  heard,  and  forgotten,  in  reference  to  the 


The  Voices  of  the  Night 

countess  —  some  bit  of  rumor,  not  entirely  creditable  to  the 
woman's  husband. 

What  was  it?  Faith,  he  couldn't  nail  it  down,  at  all,  at 
all;  it  was  right  there,  on  the  tip  of  his  tongue,  so  to  speak, 
but  it  wouldn't  form  itself  into  coherency;  something  — 

Impatient  with  himself  for  bothering  his  head  over  other 
people's  business,  O'Rourke  sat  him  down  in  a  big  armchair, 
placed  comfortably  between  two  of  the  long  French  windows 
that  opened  out  upon  the  piazza.  He  started  a  fresh  cigar, 
and  tried  to  put  young  Senet  and  his  hopeless  love  affair  out 
of  his  mind. 

But  he  was  not  to  be  permitted  to  forget.  For  a  gam- 
bling room,  this  salon  was  rather  quiet;  the  patrons  at  the 
tables  were  mostly  hardened  habitues,  who  placed  their  stakes 
and  accepted  losses  and  gains  with  silent  aplomb.  Only  the 
croaking  of  the  croupier  and  the  chatter  of  the  chips  sounded 
loudly. 

So  that  it  was  an  easy  matter  to  accustom  one's  ears  to  out- 
side noises.  O'Rourke  found  himself  attentive  to  the  meas- 
ured tread  of  a  couple  who  were  promenading  the  veranda  — 
listening  to  their  footsteps  die  out  in  the  distance,  and  then 
gradually  come  to  a  crescendo  as  they  approached  and  passed 
his  windows. 

They  were  a  man  and  a  woman  —  he  knew  that  from  the 
rustle  of  the  woman's  skirts  and  the  heavy,  steady  tread  of 
the  man.  And  quite  suddenly  he  knew  the  woman  from  her 
voice,  when  she  spoke  in  passing. 

It  was  the  Countess  of  Seyn-Altberg. 

And  the  man?  O'Rourke  grew  impatient  for  their  re- 
turn, that  he  might  place  the  fellow  by  his  voice.  When  they 
did  come  back,  however,  he  was  disappointed;  he  did  not 
recognize  those  guttural  accents. 


Terence  O'Rourke,  Gentleman  Adventurer 

But  the  words  of  the  man  startled  him.  They  were  speak- 
ing in  German,  to  which  O'Rourke  was  no  stranger.  And  — 

"Frankly,  countess,"  he  heard  the  man's  voice,  "it  is  the 
money  that  is  of  moment  with  me — " 

The  tone  was  insolent  to  an  extreme  —  a  triumphant 
sneer  O'Rourke  analyzed  it.  Unconsciously  he  held  his 
breath  when  they  again  approached. 

This  time  it  was  the  woman  who  was  speaking. 

"But  you  have  taken  everything  —  everything!"  she  was 
saying  drearily.  "I  have  nothing  left  — " 

"Five  thousand  pounds,  English  —  or  exposure!"  inter- 
rupted the  man. 

They  passed  and  returned. 

"I  am  tired,  tired!"  cried  the  woman  passionately.  "I 
do  not  care — " 

"Ah,  countess;  but  think  of  the  shame  — " 

"Don't  — ah,  don't!"  she  wailed. 

"This,"  muttered  O'Rourke,  "begins  to  smell  most  dam- 
nably like  blackmail — and  the  dirtiest  kind,  at  that!  Faith, 
'tis  hardly  honorable,  but  'tis  meself  that  will  listen  —  for 
Senet's  sake,"  he  soothed  his  conscience. 

Again  they  passed. 

"  That,"  said  the  man,  in  accents  of  finality,  "  or  marriage ! " 

"But  —  but  I  cannot  marry  you,  Herr  Captain!" 

"Captain,  eh?"  said  O'Rourke. 

"Europe  need  never  know  that  your  husband  lives,  countess." 

The  woman  stopped,  and  the  man  halted  with  her 
O'Rourke  could  hear  the  hurried,  desperate  sound  of  her 
breathing.  He  fancied  that  he  could  see  her,  pale  with  rage 
and  dread,  as  she  faced  the  oppressor. 

"I  will  not!  I  will  not!"  cried  the  woman.  "You  have 
gone  too  far,  —  too  far,  Herr  Captain!  I  warn  you  — " 


The  Voices  of  the  Night 

"Countess,"  mocked  the  man,  "pardon  —  a  thousand 
pardons!"  He  laughed  harshly.  "I  give  you  until  to- 
morrow evening,  my  countess!"  he  said. 

"Now  to  interfere,"  thought  O'Rourke. 

As  his  shadow  fell  across  the  light  oblong  cast  by  the  French 
window,  the  man  turned;  their  eyes  met. 

O'Rourke  knew  him  instantly.  "Ah!"  he  said,  bowing 
mockingly.  "Good  evening,  Captain  von  Wever!" 

The  German  looked  him  up  and  down,  twirling  his  mus- 
taches. 

"  Good  evening,"  he  returned  curtly,  with  a  slight  inclina- 
tion of  his  head;  and  showed  his  back  to  O'Rourke. 

The  Irishman  was  no  wise  disconcerted.  He  remained 
standing  in  the  window,  inhaling  the  night  air.  For  a  mo- 
ment the  tableau  held ;  then  the  woman  took  the  initiative. 

"Then,"  she  said  with  a  courteous  little  laugh,  —  the  per- 
fection of  dramatic  art,  —  extending  her  hand,  "I  may  drop 
you  a  line  to-morrow,  Captain  von  Wever." 

The  German  bent  low  as  he  took  his  dismissal.  "I  shall 
be  desolated  if  I  do  not  hear  from  you  —  by  evening,  Mrs. 
Dean,"  he  said.  "Good  night."  And  he  stalked  down  the 
steps  and  out  to  the  street. 

As  for  the  woman,  she  hurried  into  the  hotel.  O'Rourke 
remained  where  he  was,  simulating  admiration  for  the  beauty 
of  the  night,  but,  in  reality,  busily  trying  to  build  a  working 
hypothesis  of  the  case  out  of  the  fragments  he  had  overheard. 

It  was,  admittedly,  none  of  his  affair.  But  the  hunted 
look  in  the  woman's  eyes,  as  she  had  confronted  her  perse- 
cutor, had  gone  straight  to  O'Rourke's  heart.  She  was  a 
regally  beautiful  woman,  worthily  the  bearer  of  her  title ;  and 
she  was  in  sore  distress.  As  to  that,  there  could  be  no  doubt. 

That  fellow  —  this  cashiered  captain  of  the  German  army 


Terence  O'Rourke,  Gentleman  Adventurer 

emotion  other  than  an  occasional  deep  intake  of  her  breath 
—  an  astonishingly  pretty  and  delicate  woman  aping  the 
stolidity  of  a  hardened  gambler. 

O'Rourke  smiled  and  shook  his  head  sorrowfully.  "Ah, 
madam!"  he  whispered,  "had  I  but  the  right  to  advise  ye!" 
But  he  had  not;  therefore,  he,  too,  scrutinized  madam's  play 
with  a  respectful  pertinacity.  She  was  losing  without  a 
break;  O'Rourke  contented  himself  with  an  occasional  small 
bet  on  the  color  that  madam's  coin  did  not  cover  —  and,  as 
a  rule,  he  won. 

Strangely  enough,  the  coincidence  angered  him;  his  face 
hardened,  his  eyes  acquiring  a  steely  glitter,  and  the  muscles 
on  either  side  of  his  jawbone  coming  out  into  undue  promi- 
nence as  he  set  his  teeth  and  bided  his  time. 

For  an  hour  he  continued  this  careless  system;  it  was  grow- 
ing late,  and  the  frequenters  of  the  tables  were,  one  by  one, 
forsaking  their  places.  Eventually  but  half  a  dozen  re- 
mained —  O'Rourke  and  the  countess  having  their  table 
entirely  to  themselves. 

The  woman  was  still  consistently  losing.  She  had  gone 
quite  pale  —  almost  haggard.  Her  lips,  that  had  been  full 
and  red,  had  become  a  firm,  set  line,  well-nigh  white;  her 
eyes  were  filled  with  anxiety;  and  the  short,  sharp  gasps  with 
which  she  bade  farewell  to  hope,  as  each  com  was  ruthlessly 
gathered  hi  by  the  croupier's  rake,  showed  how  hard  she  was 
taking  her  ill  fortune. 

At  length  the  end  was  very  near;  for  the  tenth  time,  per- 
haps, she  had  reopened  her  pocketbook;  and  by  now  its  once 
plump  sides  were  limp  and  flabby.  Her  slender,  tapering 
fingers  trembled  nervously  as  she  felt  in  the  bare  depths  of 
the  receptacle  —  searched  tremulously,  and  found  little. 

She  produced  a  solitary  sovereign;  intuitively,  as  well  as 

[322] 


The  Voices  of  the  Night 

by  process  of  deduction,  O'Rourke  knew  it  to  be  her  last. 
She  had  staked  all  —  lost  all.  A  wave  of  pity  and  compas- 
sion swept  upon  the  man  as  he  noted  the  nervous  agitation 
of  her  hand,  the  dryness  of  her  lips,  the  agony  of  suspense 
with  which  she  awaited  the  verdict  of  the  wheel.  It  was  the 
last  chance;  should  she  win,  it  would  mean  a  respite,  a  breath- 
ing space  with  the  possibility  of  further  winnings;  it  would 
mean  that  she  might  possibly  recoup. 

At  least,  thought  the  sympathetic  Celt,  it  would  mean  that 
to  her.  As  for  himself,  the  world-worn  and  worldly  wise,  he 
thought  he  knew  exceedingly  well  how  matters  were  to  turn 
out. 

The  countess  had  staked  upon  the  25  again  —  at  the  last 
as  well  as  at  first.  She  bent  forward  eagerly,  perhaps  breath- 
ing a  little  prayer  as  the  croupier  twirled  the  wheel  and  set 
the  little  pellet  of  fate  whirling  in  its  race. 

As  for  the  croupier  —  a  faded  Frenchman,  on  whose 
weary,  seamed  physiognomy  was  written  large  the  history 
of  dissipated  days  —  he  glanced  at  the  clock,  and  deli- 
cately concealed  a  yawn  with  his  white,  elegant  fingers.  Then, 
as  the  wheel  began  to  slacken  in  its  revolutions,  he  made  a 
careful  mental  note  of  madam's  stake. 

It  was  late  —  very.  Monsieur  le  croupier  was  weary  and 
quite  agreeable  that  the  play  should  have  an  early  end.  If 
madam  lost,  there  would  remain  only  the  Irishman.  And 
the  tables  are  not  kept  open  for  one  lone  player. 

The  wheel  gradually  stopped;  for  an  instant  the  ball  was 
sliding  smoothly  in  its  ebony  run;  another,  and  it  rattled 
madly  over  the  compartments. 

The  countess's  eyes  refused  to  leave  the  ivory  arbiter  of  her 
fate;  she  hung  upon  its  maneuvers,  fascinated.  To  all  ap- 
pearances O'Rourke  was  in  like  suspense;  yet  the  Irishman's 

[323] 


Terence  O'Rourke,  Gentleman  Adventurer 

swift  glance  did  not  fail  to  record  the  fact  that  one  of  the 
croupier's  hands  had  sunk  beneath  the  level  of  the  table. 

Abruptly  the  ball  hesitated;  it  seemed  about  to  fall  into  the 
25.  Indeed,  for  the  fraction  of  an  instant  it  was  in  that  com- 
partment; and  then  it  recoiled,  slid  gracefully  out  in  a  slight 
arc,  and  settled  in  the  double  zero. 

Impassively  the  croupier  took  up  his  rake,  announcing  the 
result  with  merciless  clearness.  He  glanced  at  the  two  stakes 
—  madam's  on  the  25,  black;  O'Rourke's  modest  bet  upon 
the  red  —  and  reached  forth  with  the  rake  like  a  hungry, 
clutching  claw. 

Madame  sank  back  with  a  half-suppressed  cry. 

O'Rourke  put  out  his  hand,  and  deflected  the  rake.  "One 
moment,"  he  said  calmly. 

"Monsieur!"  expostulated  the  scandalized  croupier. 

"Oh,  come  now!"  remonstrated  O'Rourke  pleasantly. 
"  Ye're  not  meaning  to  do  anything  like  that,  now,  are  ye  ?  " 

"What  does  m'sieur  mean?" 

"M'sieur  means,"  mimicked  O'Rourke,  still  good-na- 
turedly, "that  ye're  a  trifle  barefaced  in  your  swindling, 
me  lad.  Steady,  now!  Don't  shout!  Ye'll  only  attract 
undesirable  notoriety." 

The  croupier  paused,  his  mouth  open,  his  eyes  glaring 
undying  hate  into  O'Rourke's.  The  Irishman  dropped 
his  hand  nonchalantly  into  the  side  pocket  of  his  coat,  and 
turned  to  the  woman  —  but  without  taking  his  gaze  from 
the  gambler. 

"One  moment,  if  ye  please,  madam,"  he  begged  her,  as, 
frightened  and  apprehensive,  she  was  about  to  rise  and  take 
her  leave.  "There  has  been  a  trifle  of  a  mistake  here.  This 
gentleman  is  about  to  make  amends." 

From  the  gentleman's  expression,  one  would  have  said, 

[324] 


The  Voices  of  the  Night 

rather,  that  he  contemplated  springing  at  O'Rourke's  throat. 
Doubtless,  in  point  of  fact,  nothing  kept  him  from  such  an 
assault  but  that  hand  which  remained  negligently  concealed 
in  the  coat  pocket. 

O'Rourke  followed  his  glance,  and  nodded  meaningly. 
"I  should  not  hesitate,"  he  assured  the  fellow,  twisting  the 
revolver  upward  so  that  its  muzzle  showed  sharply  through 
the  cloth.  "Be  very  careful  that  I  do  not  forget  meself." 

The  croupier's  voice  rattled  huskily  in  his  throat.  "What 
does  m'sieur  mean?"  he  would  know.  "I  do  not  under- 
stand—" 

uOh,  yes,  ye  do!"  contradicted  O'Rourke.  "But,  as  for 
that,  I  mean  this." 

He  bent  forward,  very  quickly,  and  seized  the  wheel  by 
the  cross,  attempting  to  lift  it;  and  it  failed  to  budge  to  his 
strength. 

"Ye  see,  madam,"  explained  O'Rourke,  "the  wheel  is 
fixed  —  likewise  the  game.  Monsieur  has  cheated  ye  shame- 
lessly. He  will  make  restitution." 

He  nodded  brusquely  to  the  man.  "Quick,  monsieur," 
he  warned  him,  sharply.  "Repay  madam  what  she  has  lost 
or  —  do  ye  wish  all  Tangiers  to  know  your  methods?" 

So  far  the  altercation  had  been  conducted  in  tones  dis- 
creetly modulated;  the  others  in  the  salon  were  unaware  that 
aught  was  amiss.  The  croupier  assured  himself  of  this  fact 
with  a  hasty  glance.  Then  — 

"You  will  not  tell,  m'sieur?"  he  pleaded. 

"Not  if  ye  repay  madam's  wagers,  and  that  quickly." 

"Nor  madame?  " 

She  shook  her  head  in  negation;  not  a  word  had  she  uttered 
from  first  to  last  of  the  little  scene.  Only  her  gaze,  at  first 
bewildered,  then  with  dawning  understanding,  and  later 

[325] 


Terence  O'Rourke,  Gentleman  Adventurer 

instinct  with  the  light  of  gratitude,  had  searched  O'Rourke1  s 
face. 

"Very  \vell,  m'sieur,"  submitted  the  croupier  meekly. 
"How  much,  madame?" 

She  stated  the  amount  in  a  small,  tremulous  voice:  "One 
hundred  pounds."  And,  counting  out  the  notes  with  care, 
the  man  handed  them  over. 

"And  now,  madam,"  suggested  O'Rourke,  "if  ye  will  be 
kind  enough  to  leave  us,  I  have  a  word  or  two  to  whisper  in 
this  gentleman's  ear." 

She  rose.  "I  —  I  —  "  she  -faltered,  at  a  loss  for  fitting 
phrases  wherein  to  frame  her  gratitude. 

"Later,  if  ye  insist,  madam,"  said  O'Rourke.  "'Tis  but 
the  bit  of  a  minute." 

She  bowed  slightly,  and  swept  out  of  the  salon.  O'Rourke 
wheeled  about,  his  eyes  blazing,  his  anger  at  last  out  of  leash. 

"One  word  of  this,  ye  scut!"  he  snapped,  "and  ye'll  regret 
it  to  your  dying  day !  Do  ye  understand  me  clearly  ?" 

The  man  backed  hastily  away.  "Yes,  yes,  m'sieur  I"  he 
implored.  "I  —  I  shall  be  discreet." 

"See  that  ye  are.  And  —  mark  me  words!  —  ii  an  at- 
tempt is  made  to  do  me  an  injury  while  I  am  in  Tangiers, 
your  life  shall  be  the  forfeit.  Don't  forget  that!" 

Contemptuously  he  turned  his  back  and  left  the  room.  In 
the  hall  he  found  the  woman  waiting  for  him,  and  forestalled 
her  protestations. 

"'Tis  nothing!"  he  told  her  lightly.  "Madam,  I  beg  of 
ye!  The  thanks  are  due  from  me;  'tis  meself  that  has  been 
waiting  for  that  opportunity  for  several  days.  And  will  ye 
permit  me  to  give  ye  a  word  of  counsel?  Then,  don't  ye 
risk  another  sou  in  Tangiers;  there's  not  a  table  in  the  place 
that  is  run  on  the  level." 

[326] 


The  Voices  of  the  Night 

"But,  sir,"  she  insisted,  "I  must,  must  thank  you.  You 
—  you  cannot  know  what  service  you  have  done  me!  I  — " 

"Faith,  madam,  and  I'd  do  the  double  of  it  in  the  twin- 
kling of  an  eye  if  ye  would  do  me  the  honor  of  asking  me. 
'Tis  only  to  ask  me,  to  tell  me 'in  what  manner  I  may  serve 
ye  —  and,  I  promise  ye,  'twill  be  done!" 

His  offer  was  not  made  lightly,  but  in  all  earnestness;  his 
tone  was  weighty  with  a  meaning  that  brought  home  to  the 
woman  how  greatly  she  stood  in  need  of  one  who  could  do 
that  which  the  Irishman  boasted  his  ability  to  accomplish. 
She  stepped  back  a  pace,  a  flutter  of  hope  in  her  eyes,  a 
tremor  shaking  her.  For  a  passing  instant  she  even  con- 
templated taking  advantage  of  his  offer.  Perhaps  she  had 
a  glorious  glimpse  of  a  vista  of  unharassed  days  stretching 
before  her  —  of  peace  and  quiet,  and  the  liberty  to  live  out 
her  own  life  as  she  willed. 

He  bulked  so  big,  so  masterful,  this  Irishman  who  seemed 
to  mean  every  word  that  he  uttered;  his  bearing  was  so 
assured,  his  control  of  himself,  as  well  as  of  others,  so  indis- 
putable, that  it  seemed  feasible  for  her  to  confide  in  him,  to 
trust  in  him  to  rid  her  of  the  abiding  horror  of  her  days. 

His  silent  sympathy,  so  evident,  tempted  her  mightily;  and 
yet  she  paused  to  think — when,  all  at  once,  hope  was  crushed, 
blotted  out,  buried  in  the  depths  of  her  heart. 

The  man  was  an  utter  stranger  to  her.  She  did  not  even 
know  his  name;  what  right  had  she  to  give  into  his  hands  the 
weapon  which  von  Wever  held  threateningly  over  her  poor, 
distraught  head  —  to  confide  in  this  stranger,  when  she  dared 
not  even  breathe  her  secret  to  Senet,  who,  she  knew,  would 
give  his  life  for  her? 

"No,"  she  gasped,  stepped  back  from  him,  as  though  the 
man  personified  the  most  alluring  temptation  of  which  her 

[327] 


Terence  O'Rourke,  Gentleman  Adventurer 

mind  could  conceive;  "no,  no,  sir  —  I  —  I  —  you  are  very 
kind,  indeed  —  but  —  I  am  so  excited,  nervous  —  you  see  — 
I  will  be  able  to  thank  you  properly  to-morrow." 

He  bowed  gravely;  she  recovered  her  control  sufficiently 
to  smile  ravishingly  upon  the  Irishman;  and  then,  "Good 
night,  monsieur,"  she  told  him,  and  was  gone  —  all  but 
stumbling  in  her  haste  to  be  up  the  staircase,  to  be  alone  in 
the  seclusion"!  of  her  room  and  free  to  lie  awake,  to  plot, 
to  plan,  to  scheme  her  endless  futile  schemes  to  rid  herself 
of  her  crushing  incubus. 

O'Rourke,  when  she  was  out  of  sight,  shrugged  his  shoul- 
ders with  a  whimsical  smile.  "  'Tis  yourself  that  would  be 
the  squire  of  dames,  is  it,  O'Rourke?"  he  said.  "Faith,  but 
it  seems  that  ye  will  not.  Let  us  go  out  and  think  about  this 
thing  —  for,  if  ever  a  woman  stood  in  need  of  a  man's  strong 
arm,  a  man's  honest  generosity,  'tis  this  countess,  and  upon 
this  very  night  —  I'm  thinking." 

He  wandered  abstractedly  out  upon  the  veranda.  "Seyn- 
Altberg,  Seyn-Altberg!"  he  prodded  his  memory.  "Now, 
what  is  it  that  I  misremember  ?  And  what  is  the  r6le  of  Herr 
Captain  von  Wever  in  this  little  drama?  Let  me  think. 
What's  that,  eh?"  He  gazed  up  into  the  cloudless  Medi- 
terranean sky,  brilliant  with  an  infinity  of  stars  that  paled 
before  the  serenity  of  the  high-sailing  moon.  Von  Wever's 
words  came  back  to  him  like  an  echo: 

"Europe  need  never  know  your  husband  lives,  countess!" 

"And,"  added  O'Rourke  seriously,  "'tis  true  that  I  have 
no  overpowering  love  for  this  von  Wever  in  me  heart  1 
Faith,  now  I  begin  to  see  a  light!" 


[328] 


CHAPTER  XIV 

THE  CAPTAIN  OF  VILLAINY 

DANNY,  the  careworn,  the  solicitous  of  his  master's  for- 
tunes —  he  of  the  brilliant  head  of  hair  —  who  slumbered 
peacefully  on  the  foot  of  O'Rourke's  bed,  was  roused  by  the 
application  of  the  toe  of  O'Rourke's  boot. 

He  looked  up,  yawning  and  digging  clenched  fists  into  his 
sleep-laden  eyes.  O'Rourke  stood  over  him,  ejecting  the 
cartridges  from  the  cylinder  of  his  revolver  and  reloading  the 
weapon  with  a  scrupulous  care. 

Without  even  a  sidelong  glan.ce  at  his  body  servant,  the 
Irishman  absentmindedly,  carelessly,  kicked  him  a  second 
time.  "Get  up,  ye  lazy  gossoon  1"  he  murmured  softly. 
"Who  d'ye  think  ye  are,  to  be  wallowing  there  and  making 
the  night  hideous  with  the  snoring  of  ye?  Get  up  —  and 
that  at  once,  Danny!" 

Grumbling  a  remonstrance,  Danny  got  to  his  feet  and 
stretched  himself;  he  looked  at  the  clock.  "Three,  is  it?" 
he  cried.  "  Sure,  now,  sor,  'tis  yersilf  that's  the  late  one  to 
bed !  Sit  down,  sor,  and  I'll  be  taking  aff  the  boots  av  ye." 

"Ye'U  be  doing  naught  of  the  sort,  Danny,"  remarked 
O'Rourke  pleasantly.  "'Tis  yourself,  on  the  contrary, 
who'll  be  putting  a  hat  over  that  fiery  crop  of  ye,  and  coming 
along  with  me." 

"Sure,  now,  sor,  'tis  yer  honor's  joking,"  expostulated 
Danny. 

"Um-m,"  agreed  O'Rourke.  "But  'tis  not  the  time  for 
[329] 


Terence  O'Rourke,  Gentleman  Adventurer 

the  laugh  yet,  Danny.  Ye  stick  that  other  gun  in  your  pocket, 
now.  Is  it  loaded?  Good  I  And  remember  that  the 
O'Rourke  is  a  great  man,  and  ye  have  only  to  stick  by  him, 
and  your  fortune's  as  good  as  made." 

He  twirled  the  cylinder;  it  worked  smoothly,  easily.  "Is 
it  not  so?"  asked  O'Rourke. 

Danny  dodged  a  third  well-aimed  kick.  "Sure,  an'  'tis 
the  living  truth ! "  he  hastened  to  agree.  "  Phwat  is  yer  honor 
going  to  do,  if  I  may  make  so  bold  as  to  ask?" 

"Faith,  Danny,  I'm  going  to  solve  a  puzzle.  Come  on 
with  ye,  now,  and  no  hanging  back  at  all,  as  ye  value  your 
peace  of  mind,  Danny." 

Quickly  and  quietly  they  left  O'Rourke's  apartments  and 
the  grounds  of  the  Hotel  d1  Anglelerre;  in  two  minutes  they 
were  in  the  street,  climbing  up  the  hillside  toward  the  daz- 
zling white  citadel  that  crowns  Tangiers. 

As  they  proceeded,  O'Rourke  enlivened  the  tedium  of  a 
walk  at  an  hour  so  unholy  with  a  running  fire  of  comment 
and  instruction. 

"There  will  be  two  ways  of  solving  a  puzzle,  Danny," 
he  said.  "  One  is  to  take  hold  of  the  clue  the  maker  of  it 
puts  in  your  hand,  and  run  around  like  a  chicken  with  its 
head  off,  wondering  what  'tis  all  about.  The  other  and  most' 
approved  method  is  to  get  right  at  the  black  heart  of  the  mys- 
tery and  butt  your  way  out  to  daylight.  Ye  follow  me  ?  " 

"Yis,  sor,"  assented  Danny,  gaping  at  the  O'Rourke's 
display  of  erudition. 

"I  misdoubt  that  ye  are  lying,  Danny.  At  the  same  time, 
it  is  indisputable  that  a  gun  in  the  hand  is  worth  two  in  the 
Hotel  d1  Angleterre.  And  'tis  a  long  worm  that  has  no  turn- 
ing. I'm  convinced  that  the  Herr  Captain  von  Wever  has 
reached  the  end  of  his  rope.  Do  ye  not  hold  with  me  there, 

[330] 


Captain  of  Villainy 

Danny?  Sure  ye  do.  If  ye  stumble  again  and  yelp  I'll 
break  the  thick  head  of  ye.  Now  listen  to  what  I'm  expound- 
ing. Ye  see  this  letter?"  He  displayed  an  old  envelope 
which  he  had  taken  from  his  pocket.  "Ye  do?  'Tis  the 
penetrating  mind  ye  have,  Danny.  Take  it  in  your  hand. 
Ye  obsarve  'tis  addressed  to  me.  No  matter. 

"Presently  we'll  be  standing  in  front  of  the  house  of  Cap- 
tain von  Wever  —  a  God-forsaken  Dutchman,  Danny.  I 
will  knock  at  the  door,  and  stay  in  the  shadow  of  it.  Ye  will 
stand  in  the  street,  and  when  the  Herr  Captain  puts  his  head 
out  of  the  window,  Danny,  ye'll  tell  him  ye  are  a  boy  from 
the  Hotel  d'Angleterre  with  a  note  for  him  from  a  lady.  When 
he  comes  down  to  open  the  door,  I'll  attend  to  the  captain, 
Daniel." 

"And  phwat  will  I  do  then,  sor?" 

"Ye  will  trot  yer  damnedest  to  Mr.  Senet's  residence, 
Danny  —  'tis  but  the  bit  of  a  walk  from  here  —  tell  Mr. 
Senet  what  I  have  done  and  where  to  find  me,  and  that  he's 
to  come  to  me." 

"And  if  he  says  'Why?'  sor?" 

"Tell  the  man  that  'tis  in  the  name  of  the  Countess  of 
Seyn-Altberg.  I'm  convinced  that  will  fetch  him,  hotfoot." 

By  then  the  two  had  gained  the  crown  of  the  hill  and 
passed  on  out  into  the  suburbs  of  Tangiers.  Presently  they 
halted  before  a  detached  residence  that  lay  dark  and  silent 
in  the  moonlight  —  a  building  of  the  old  Mooresque  type, 
with  a  high,  blank  wall  fronting  upon  the  street  and  broken 
only  by  an  overhanging  latticed  balcony  on  the  second  story 
and  by  the  main  doorway. 

This  was  a  low,  arched  postern,  deep  set  in  the  stone  walls. 
Without  further  words  O'Rourke  motioned  his  man  to  the 
center  of  the  street,  where  the  moon  glare  showed  him  clearly 


Terence  O'Rourke,  Gentleman  Adventurer 

while  O'Rourke  flattened  himself  in  the  embrasure  of  the 
doorway. 

He  hammered  a  thunderous  alarm  upon  the  panels;  at 
first  getting  no  response.  But,  as  he  continued  to  bruise  his 
knuckles  upon  the  hard  wood,  a  stir  was  audible  within,  and 
a  moment  later  a  harsh,  angry  voice  could  be  heard  from  the 
balcony. 

"What  the  devil  is  this?"  stormed  Captain  von  Wever. 
"What  the  devil  do  you  want  —  you  out  there  in  the  moon- 
light?" 

"Will  that  be  Captain  von  Wever?"  Danny  pretended  to 
consult  the  address  on  the  envelope. 

"I  am  Captain  von  Wever.  Well?"  angrily  demanded 
the  German. 

"  'Tis  a  note  that  I  have,  sor,  from  a  lady  at  the  hotel,  sor. 
She  said  ye  must  have  ut  at  once,  sor,  and  gave  me  a  dollar 
for  the  bringin'  of  ut." 

"  Good  boy!"  commended  O'Rourke  in  an  undertone. 

There  was  moment's  pause;  and  then  the  German 
laughed  —  laughed  exultantly.  "  So  soon ! "  he  cried.  "  Very 
well  —  I'll  come  down  and  get  it,  boy." 

He  retired  from  the  lattice,  still  chuckling.  O'Rourke 
ground  his  teeth  with  resentment;  under  the  circumstances, 
it  seemed  a  particularly  nasty  laugh. 

"  'Twill  be  from  the  other  side  of  your  mouth  that  ye'll  be 
laughing  next,  Herr  Captain!"  he  threatened. 

He  waved  a  hand  to  Danny.  "Be  off!"  he  whispered, 
and  his  body-servant  stole  silently  away  toward  the  city. 

There  was  a  rattle  of  chain  bolts  within,  and  the  rasping 
squeak  of  a  rusty  lock.  O'Rourke  put  his  shoulder  to  the 
door,  on  the  side  of  the  lock,  and  as  the  German  turned  the 
handle,  pushed  with  all  his  strength,  driving  it  inward  witb 

[332] 


Captain  of  Villainy 

a  crash.  In  an  instant  he  had  stepped  within,  closed  and 
locked  the  door  behind  him. 

"'Tis  a  fine  morning,  Captain  von  Wever,"  he  remarked 
briskly.  "The  top  of  it  to  ye,  sir." 

The  surprise  was  a  complete  success.  The  German  stood 
stolidly  staring  at  O'Rourke,  to  all  appearances  absolutely 
benumbed  with  astonishment.  His  small,  round  eyes  were 
open  to  their  fullest  extent,  giving  his  heavy-jowled  face, 
with  its  bristling  mustache,  an  expression  of  childish  stupidity. 

He  stood  in  his  pajamas,  his  toes  thrust  into  loose,  heelless 
slippers.  Through  the  folds  of  the  night  garments  his  heavily 
builded  figure  shaped  impressively  —  well  set  up  and  sol- 
dierly. In  one  hand  he  held  a  candle,  whose  flame  flickered 
and  smoked  in  the  draft. 

For  a  moment  he  maintained  this  attitude  of  bewilderment ; 
and  then  rage  began  to  gather  at  the  back  of  his  eyes.  His 
thick  lips  settled  into  a  cruel  line,  as  he  placed  the  candle  on 
a  convenient  little  table  and  stepped  forward. 

"What  does  this  mean,  sir?"  he  shouted  furiously.  "By 
what  right  — " 

"Softly,  softly,"  O'Rourke  deprecated.  "Don't  ye  attempt 
to  strike  me,  sir,  or,  be  the  Eternal,  I'll  knock  ye  to  the  end 
of  the  passage!  Besides,"  he  added,  seeing  that  the  fellow 
was  unawed  by  his  threat,  "I've  a  gun  in  me  pocket.  Is 
it  that  ye're  wanting  me  to  stick  it  under  the  pink  nose 
of  ye?" 

Von  Wever  restrained  himself.  He  eyed  the  Irishman  as 
though  now,  for  the  first  time,  he  was  recognizing  him. 
"O'Rourke,"  he  said  slowly,  "are  you  going  to  this  insolent 
intrusion  explain  ?  " 

"All  in  me  own  good  time,"  the  Irishman  airily  assured 
him.  "'Tis  the  bit  of  a  confabulation  I'd  be  having  with 

[333] 


Terence  O'Rourke,  Gentleman  Adventurer 

ye.    I  take  it  ye  have  a  convenient  room  where  we  can  sit 
down  and  discuss  things  at  ease?" 

"Yes,"  grunted  the  German.     "But—" 

"Then  suppose  we  go  there,  and  ye'll  not  be  catching  your 
death  of  cold  standing  here  in  your  nighties." 

With  an  inarticulate  growl,  von  Wever  wheeled  about  and 
pushed  aside  a  portiere.  "I've  no  doubt  you  will  some 
explanation  make,"  he  said  surlily.  "Enter,  if  you  please." 

"Oh,  after  yourself,  sir!"  protested  O'Rourke  with  exag- 
gerated courtesy.  "And  —  light  a  lamp  before  ye  sit  down, 
captain,  dear." 

Again  the  mystified  German  obeyed,  O'Rourke  remaining 
on  guard  at  the  entrance,  while  the  captain's  slippered  feet 
paddled  around  into  the  darkness  of  the  apartment.  A  match 
was  struck,  and  a  hanging  lamp  of  Moorish  design  ignited. 
O'Rourke  removed  his  hand  from  the  butt  of  his  weapon, 
and  entered. 

The  room  was  the  reception  room  of  the  house,  as  was 
evident  from  its  furnishings.  A  smell  of  stale  tobacco  smoke 
pervaded  it,  and  on  a  little  stand  by  a  divan  were  bottles  and 
glasses. 

Von  Wever  sulkily  threw  himself  on  the  divan,  motioned 
O'Rourke  to  an  armchair,  and,  with  another  wave  of  his 
hand,  signified  that  the  whiskey  was  at  his  unwelcome  guest's 
disposal. 

"Thank  ye,"  said  O'Rourke  drily.  "I'm  not  drinking 
this  night." 

Von  Wever  was ;  he  poured  himself  a  stiff  dose  and  downed  it, 
then  looked  expectantly  at  the  Irishman.  "Well?"  he  said. 

"'Tis  to  refresh  me  memory  that  I'm  knocking  ye  up  at 
this  early  hour,"  O'Rourke  began.  "Ye'll  pardon  me,  I'm 
sure,  when  I  state  me  case." 

[334] 


Captain  of  Villainy 

"I'm  waiting,"  growled  von  Wever  non-committally. 

"I  suspected  as  much.  To  get  on:  'Twas  the  matter 
of  two  years  ago,  I  believe,  Herr  Captain,  that  ye  came  to 
Tangiers?" 

"What  business  is  that  of  yours?" 

"'Tis  coming  to  that  I  am.    Yes  or  no?" 

"Well,  — yes." 

"  D'ye  happen  to  call  to  mind  visiting  the  slave  market  at 
Tetuan  shortly  after  setting  up  this  pretty  little  home,  cap- 
tain, dear?" 

"What's  that  to  you?" 

"I  was  there  —  that's  all.  I  seem  to  remember  observing 
ye,  while  ye  purchased  a  naygur  or  two  —  a  likely-looking 
girl  from  the  Soudan,  was  it  not?  And  a  light  man  into  the 
bargain?" 

Von  Wever  sat  up,  his  little  eyes  glinting  vindictively. 

"If  you  think  for  an  instant  that  I'm  going  to  submit  to 
your  cross-examination,"  he  snarled,  "you  mistaken  are! 
Do  you  wish  me  the  door  to  show  you?" 

"Aisy,  aisy,  captain,  dear,"  laughed  O'Rourke.  "For 
what  end  ?  I'm  not  ready  to  go,  and  'tis  yourself  that's  going 
to  sit  on  that  couch  until  I  permit  ye  to  get  up.  I've  warned 
ye  that  I  am  armed.  Is  not  a  word  in  your  ear  as  good  as  a 
bullet  through  your  head?" 

"What's  your  game?" 

"Answer  me  question."  O'Rourke  twirled  his  weapon 
giddily  on  his  forefinger. 

"Yes." 

"Ye  bought  the  girl?" 

"Yes." 

"And  the  man?" 

"Yes." 

[335] 


Terence  O'Rourke,  Gentleman  Adventurer 

"A  very  light  man,  for  a  slave  —  eh,  captain,  dear?  Al- 
most as  white  as  a  white  man,  wasn't  he,  now?" 

"  Many  of  the  Fazzi  are,  I  am  told,"  muttered  the  German. 
The  muzzle  of  that  revolver  was  bulking  very  large  upon  his 
range  of  vision;  it  seemed  to  fascinate  him. 

At  that  moment  a  knock  resounded  upon  the  outer  door. 

"A  friend  of  mine,"  explained  O'Rourke,  in  a  matter-of- 
course  tone.  "  Get  up,  captain,  dear,  and  open  the  door  to 
him." 

"I  — I—" 

Von  Wever  rose,  shaking  his  fist  at  O'Rourke  —  a  huge, 
heavy  fist  that  trembled  with  passion.  "You'll  pay  for 
this!"  he  declared. 

"One  of  us  will,  that's  sure,"  assented  O'Rourke.  "For 
the  present,  ye'll  pay  attention  to  what  I  tell  ye.  Open  that 
door,  ye  swindler!"  he  thundered,  with  an  abrupt  change  of 
manner. 

The  German  hastily  obliged,  O'Rourke  following  him  out 
into  the  hall  with  a  quiet  suggestion  that  von  Wever  would 
do  wisely  to  "try  no  funny  business." 

Senet  was  admitted.  "Captain  von  Wever?"  he  said. 
"I'm  told  you  wish  to  see  me." 

"'Twas  meself  that  sent  for  ye,  Senet,  lad,"  spoke  up 
O'Rourke,  over  the  German's  shoulder.  "Come  on  in." 

He  waited  silently  until  both  had  entered  the  reception 
room,  then  followed  them.  "  Be  seated,  gentlemen,"  he  said, 
waving  the  dumbfoundered  Senet  into  a  chair.  "  'Tis  a  little 
reminiscence  that  Captain  von  Wever  is  regaling  me  with. 
I  thought  ye'd  be  interested.  Sit  tight,  me  boy,  and  ye'll 
understand  why  before  long." 

Continuing  in  his  standing  position,  he  addressed  the  Ger* 
man. 

[336] 


Captain  of  Villainy 

"Now,"  he  said  sharply,  "we'll  come  down  to  business, 
with  no  frills,  sir!  Ye  bought  this  slave — this  white  slave?" 

"Yes."  The  revolver  forced  the  monosyllable  from  the 
German. 

"What  have  ye  done  with  him?" 

"None  of  your  cursed  business!" 

"Answer  me!" 

Men,  by  the  regiment,  had  heeded  O'Rourke's  commanding 
voice.  The  German,  a  craven  at  heart,  weakened,  cowering. 

"The  slave  is  in  his  quarters,"  he  admitted  sullenly. 

"Call  him,  then  —  or,  better  still,  take  us  to  him." 

"I  —  he  cannot  be  seen." 

"Why?" 

"The  man  is  dying." 

"  Ah !"  O'Rourke's  eyes  were  informed  with  a  hard  light. 
"Ah!"  he  repeated.  "Dying?" 

Still  with  an  eye  for  the  German,  he  began  to  talk  rapidly 
to  Senet. 

"I'm  going  to  tell  ye  a  little  story,  Mr.  Senet,"  he  said. 
"  Be  good  enough  not  to  interrupt  me.  The  captain  here 
isn't  going  to  speak  unless  I  give  him  permission. 

"Part  of  this  I  read  in  a  scandal- mongering  newspaper  in 
Paris,  and  forgot.  Part  of  it  I  heard  from  another  man  when 
first  I  came  here,  and  noticed  this  von  Wever  buying  slaves 
in  the  sok  at  Tetuan;  and  that,  too,  I  forgot.  Part  of  it  is 
pure  deduction ;  but  we  shall  see  if  Herr  Captain  von  Wever 
dares  to  deny  it. 

"To  begin  at  the  beginning,  a  girl  named  Ellen  Dean,  of 
the  States—" 

Senet  started  up  from  his  chair,  but  O'Rourke  silenced 
him  with  a  gesture.  The  German  looked  around  him  fur- 
tively, with  something  of  the  expression  of  a  trapped  animal. 

[337] 


Terence  O'Rourke,  Gentleman  Adventurer 

"A  very  light  man,  for  a  slave  —  eh,  captain,  dear?  Al- 
most as  white  as  a  white  man,  wasn't  he,  now?" 

"Many  of  the  Fazzi  are,  I  am  told,"  muttered  the  German. 
The  muzzle  of  that  revolver  was  bulking  very  large  upon  his 
range  of  vision;  it  seemed  to  fascinate  him. 

At  that  moment  a  knock  resounded  upon  the  outer  door. 

"A  friend  of  mine,"  explained  O'Rourke,  in  a  matter-of- 
course  tone.  "Get  up,  captain,  dear,  and  open  the  door  to 
him." 

"I  — I—" 

Von  Wever  rose,  shaking  his  fist  at  O'Rcurke  —  a  huge, 
heavy  fist  that  trembled  with  passion.  "You'll  pay  for 
this!"  he  declared. 

"One  of  us  will,  that's  sure,"  assented  O'Rourke.  "For 
the  present,  ye'll  pay  attention  to  what  I  tell  ye.  Open  that 
door,  ye  swindler!"  he  thundered,  with  an  abrupt  change  of 
manner. 

The  German  hastily  obliged,  O'Rourke  following  him  out 
into  the  hall  with  a  quiet  suggestion  that  von  Wever  would 
do  wisely  to  "try  no  funny  business." 

Senet  was  admitted.  "Captain  von  Wever?"  he  said. 
"I'm  told  you  wish  to  see  me." 

"'Twas  meself  that  sent  for  ye,  Senet,  lad,"  spoke  up 
O'Rourke,  over  the  German's  shoulder.  "Come  on  in." 

He  waited  silently  until  both  had  entered  the  reception 
room,  then  followed  them.  "  Be  seated,  gentlemen,"  he  said, 
waving  the  dumbfoundered  Senet  into  a  chair.  "  'Tis  a  little 
reminiscence  that  Captain  von  Wever  is  regaling  me  with. 
I  thought  ye'd  be  interested.  Sit  tight,  me  boy,  and  ye'll 
understand  why  before  long." 

Continuing  in  his  standing  position,  he  addressed  the  Ger* 
man. 

[3361 


Captain  of  Villainy 

"Now,"  he  said  sharply,  "we'll  come  down  to  business, 
with  no  frills,  sir!  Ye  bought  this  slave — this  white  slave?" 

"Yes."  The  revolver  forced  the  monosyllable  from  the 
German. 

"What  have  ye  done  with  him?" 

"None  of  your  cursed  business!" 

"Answer  me!" 

Men,  by  the  regiment,  had  heeded  O'Rourke's  commanding 
voice.  The  German,  a  craven  at  heart,  weakened,  cowering. 

"The  slave  is  hi  his  quarters,"  he  admitted  sullenly. 

"Call  him,  then  —  or,  better  still,  take  us  to  him." 

"I  —  he  cannot  be  seen." 

"Why?" 

"The  man  is  dying." 

"Ah!"  O'Rourke's  eyes  were  informed  with  a  hard  light. 
"Ah!"  he  repeated.  "Dying?" 

Still  with  an  eye  for  the  German,  he  began  to  talk  rapidly 
to  Senet. 

"I'm  going  to  tell  ye  a  little  story,  Mr.  Senet,"  he  said. 
"Be  good  enough  not  to  interrupt  me.  The  captain  here 
isn't  going  to  speak  unless  I  give  him  permission. 

"  Part  of  this  I  read  in  a  scandal-mongering  newspaper  in 
Paris,  and  forgot.  Part  of  it  I  heard  from  another  man  when 
first  I  came  here,  and  noticed  this  von  Wever  buying  slaves 
in  the  sok  at  Tetuan;  and  that,  too,  I  forgot.  Part  of  it  is 
pure  deduction;  but  we  shall  see  if  Herr  Captain  von  Wever 
dares  to  deny  it. 

"To  begin  at  the  beginning,  a  girl  named  Ellen  Dean,  of 
the  States—" 

Senet  started  up  from  his  chair,  but  O'Rourke  silenced 
him  with  a  gesture.  The  German  looked  around  him  fur- 
tively, with  something  of  the  expression  of  a  trapped  animal. 

[337] 


But  O'Rourke  was  too  vigilant  for  him;  there  was  no  pos- 
sibility of  escape. 

"  — of  the  States,"  he  continued  in  an  even  tone,  "mar- 
ried herself  and  her  papa's  money  to  a  German  count  —  the 
Count  of  Seyn-Altberg,  we'll  call  him,  because  that's  his  title. 
He  was  a  young  chap,  good-natured,  weak,  and  a  little  lively 
—  a  captain  in  a  crack  infantry  regiment  of  the  German  army, 
whose  brother  officers  were  a  bad  lot  —  such  as  von  Wever 
here.  One  night,  shortly  after  his  marriage,  he  played  cards 
with  them.  Someone  —  an  officer  who  had  fallen  in  love 
with  the  count's  wife  —  accused  the  count  of  cheating.  In 
fact,  he  proved  it  —  found  the  cards  up  his  sleeve,  I  believe. 
Eh,  captain,  dear?" 

The  German  made  no  sign,  and  O'Rourke  continued: 

"Naturally,  the  others  present  were  scandalized.  They 
got  together  and  agreed  to  keep  silence,  for  the  honor  of 
their  regiment,  on  one  condition  —  the  Count  of  Seyn- 
Altberg  was  to  kill  himself.  He  pledged  his  word  to  do  so; 
and  the  others  kept  their  words  —  all  but  one. 

"This  poor  divvle  of  a  count  was  frightened  when  he  felt 
the  touch  of  his  razor  on  his  throat.  He  weakened,  and  — 
fled  here  to  Tangiers,  without  saying  a  word  to  a  living 
soul  save  one  —  Captain  von  Wever!  The  count  fell  in  bad 
ways.  He  was  incognito,  of  course,  and  nobody  gave  a  damn 
for  him,  and  he  gave  a  damn  for  nobody  on  earth  but  his  wife, 
whom  he  looked  upon  as  a  memory.  He  never  troubled  the 
poor  girl.  But  he  went  downhill  faster  than  the  pigs  pos- 
sessed by  the  devils  that  the  priests  will  be  telling  ye. about; 
he  sunk  lower  and  lower,  and  finally  took  to  living  in  the 
native  quarters  —  and  the  worst  of  them.  And  in  the  end, 
one  bright  and  beautiful  morning,  the  Count  of  Seyn-Altberg 
turned  up  missing. 

[338] 


Captain  of  Villainy 

"About  that  same  time,  one  Captain  von  Wever  was 
cashiered  for  conduct  unbecoming  the  officer  and  the  gentle- 
man he  pretended  to  be.  He  came  to  Tangiers,  and,  though 
he  had  no  visible  means  of  support,  lived  on  the  fat  of  the 
land.  He  bought  him  slaves,  the  dirty  dog  —  slaves  to  wait 
on  him;  and  one  of  those  slaves  was  a  man  nearly  white, 
corresponding  in  every  particular  to  the  man  who  had  once 
been  the  Count  of  Seyn-Altberg.  Now  —  this  is  the  tough 
part  of  me  story,  Senet;  sit  still  and  wait  till  I'm  through  with 
it  —  the  money  that  kept  Captain  von  Wever  going  came 
from  —  can  ye  not  guess  where  and  whom  ?  It  came  from 
Germany,  from  the  poor,  terrorized,  little  Countess  of  Seyn- 
Altberg  that  once  was  an  American  girl. 

"Mr.  Senet  —  I'm  not  quite  finished,  sir!    That's  better. 

"And  she  sent  it  to  Captain  von  Wever,  not  because  she 
loved  the  dog,  but  because  he  threatened  to  take  back  to 
Europe  this  miserable,  degraded,  semi-idiotic,  hashish- 
crazed  Thing  who  had  at  one  time  answered  to  the  name  of 
the  Count  of  Seyn-Altberg  —  threatened  to  carry  him  home, 
and  expose  him,  and  bring  shame  and  humiliation  on  the 
girl.  He  bled  her;  she  sent  him  every  cent  she  had  in  the 
world,  and  still  the  infamous  whelp  snarled  for  more.  And 
when  he  found  that  she  was  at  last  at  the  end  of  her  resources, 
he  made  her  come  here  to  meet  him  and  told  her  —  I  heard 
him  this  night,  Senet  —  that  she  must  give  him  five  thousand 
pounds  or  else  marry  him  —  marry  him  while  her  own  hus- 
band was  yet  living,  and  while  both  knew  it!" 

O'Rourke  paused  and  glanced  swiftly  at  Senet.  The 
younger  man  was  clutching  the  arms  of  his  chair  as  though 
by  main  strength  alone  he  kept  himself  seated.  His  face 
had  become  fairly  livid  —  as  white,  well-nigh,  as  his  collar; 
and  his  eyes  burned  like  live  coals. 

[339] 


Terence  O'Rourke,  Gentleman  Adventurer 

"Von  Wever,"  O'Rourke  cried  in  a  tone  that  brought  the 
wretch's  eyes  obedient  to  his  gaze,  "tell  Mr.  Senet  if  this 
be  true." 

The  German  answered  without  premeditation,  for 
O'Rourke  had  recounted  his  narrative  with  such  a  wealth 
of  circumstance  —  and  it  was  all  so  true  —  that  he  was 
appalled. 

"The  countess  told  you!"  he  snarled. 

"Ah!  but  she  did  not,"  remarked  O'Rourke.  "Then  it 
is  true?" 

"True?"  The  sound  of  his  own  voice  carried  a  flush  of 
returning  courage  to  the  man's  heart.  "True?"  he  raged. 
"Well,  then,  what  if  it  is  true?  What  are  you  going  to  do 
about  it,  eh?  By  God!  O'Rourke,  I'll  make  you  suffer  for 
this  outrage!  There's  one  thing  that  you've  got  to  leam 
about  Morocco,  and  that  is  that  every  man  is  a  law  unto  him- 
self here." 

He  was  telling  the  plain,  unvarnished  truth ;  and  because 
that  was  so,  confidence  was  returning  to  him. 

"You  can't  touch  me!"  he  screamed.  "Yes,  you  dogs, 
I've  done  all  you  accuse  me  of;  but  you  —  can't  —  touch 
—  me!" 

"  No  ? "  interrupted  O'Rourke,  with  polite  surprise.  "  Faith 
then,  I'm  deceiving  meself  wofully,  Herr  Captain.  Let  me 
tell  ye  one  thing,  blackmailer  —  no  matter  where  ye  go,  sir, 
no  matter  how  greatly  ye  esteem  your  liberty  or  how  secure 
ye  feel  in  your  arrogance,  there's  this  one  thing  ye'll  answer 
to  —  the  judgment  of  decent  men,  who  weigh  ye  in  the  scales 
of  decent  living!  Senet,"  he  concluded,  changing  abruptly, 
"this  is  your  affair.  If  ye  want  help  I'll  be  outside  the  door, 
and  ready  and  willing.  I  notice  a  rawhide  dog  whip  in  the 
comer  there  —  ye  may  find  it  useful." 

[34o] 


Captain  of  Villainy 

Senet  leaped  from  his  chair;  he  was  across  the  room  in  a 
trice;  he  faced  about  with  the  whip  in  his  hand. 

"Thank  you,  O'Rourke!"  he  panted  gratefully. 

And  as  the  portiere  dropped  behind  him,  the  Irishman 
heard  the  crash  and  the  clash  of  shattered  glass  as  the  table 
was  overturned;  a  second  later  he  heard  the  first  shriek  of 
von  Wever's  agony. 


CHAPTER  XV 

THE  HOMEWARD  BOUND 

IT  was  the  middle  of  the  following  afternoon,  and  there 
was  quiet  in  the  premises  of  the  Hotel  d* Angleterre.  Its 
guests  languished,  napping  through  the  heat  of  the  day  in  their 
rooms;  and  only  in  O'Rourke's  quarters  were  any  evidences 
of  activity  to  be  found.  But  there  confusion  reigned  —  such 
confusion  as  might  be  expected  to  attend  a  sudden  and  un- 
expected departure  from  a  place  wherein  one  has  believed 
oneself  established  for  an  indeterminate  if  lengthy  period 
of  time. 

Danny,  his  face  as  red  as  his  hair,  perspiring  and  profane, 
stood  in  the  middle  of  the  floor,  ankle-deep  in  a  litter  of  wear- 
ing apparel,  saddles,  belts,  holsters,  and  all  the  variegated 
paraphernalia  which  O'Rourke  had  seen  fit  to  attach  unto 
himself  in  the  course  of  a  short  but  active  campaign  for  for- 
tune—  upon  which  in  this  one  instance,  contrarily  enough 
to  prove  her  sex,  Fortune  had  smiled.  The  acquisitiveness 
of  an  Irishman  with  a  pocketful  of  money  is  proverbial;  of 
late  nothing  had  been  too  good  for  O'Rourke,  too  cumber- 
some, or  too  expensive.  He  had  been  prospering,  and  the 
shopkeepers  of  the  Mediterranean  ports  were  bearing  in  fond 
remembrance  his  extravagances. 

And  Danny,  wild-eyed  and  desperate,  was  endeavoring 
to  pack  all  this  resultant  accumulation  of  rubbish  into  one 
small  trunk  and  a  smaller  leathern  suit-case,  in  time  to  get 
them  off,  together  with  himself  and  his  master,  upon  the 

[342] 


The  Homeward  Bound 

mail  boat  scheduled  to  touch  and  leave  Tangiers  at  five 
that  afternoon. 

The  reason  for  this  activity  was  not  far  to  seek.  It  lay 
before  O'Rourke  in  the  shape  of  a  letter  on  the  top  of  a  little 
rickety  table,  whereat  the  Irishman  himself  was  sitting  and 
writhing  in  the  agonies  of  epistolary  composition. 

O'Rourke's  color  was  scarcely  less  vivid  than  Danny's; 
and  his  perturbation  of  mind  was  apparent,  even  to  the  body- 
servant,  —  who  therefore,  and  sagaciously,  was  at  pains  to 
make  no  unnecessary  disturbance  which  would  tend  to  dis- 
tract his  master's  trend  of  thoughts,  and  who  kept  the  corner 
of  an  eye  warily  alert  for  flying  boots  and  other  missiles, 
which  were  to  be  apprehended  as  signals  that  O'Rourke  was 
annoyed  by  his  follower. 

But,  for  all  that,  Danny  was  trembling  with  joy;  and  even 
the  eye  of  O'Rourke  was  alight  with  satisfaction  as  he  conned 
and  reconned  the  information  contained  in  the  brief,  legal- 
looking  scrawl  which  had  arrived  per  the  east-bound  mail 
packet,  that  very  morning. 

The  adventurer  divided  his  attention  between  that  com- 
munication and  another  which  he  was  setting  himself  de- 
terminedly to  compose,  pending  his  early  departure.  He 
dug  fingers  into  his  dark  hair  and  ground  his  teeth  with 
despair  as  the  pen  sputtered  and  tracked  an  irregular  way 
across  the  many  sheets  of  hotel  writing-paper  which  he  had 
requisitioned  for  his  purpose. 

At  length,  with  an  exclamation  which  caused  Danny  to 
retreat  with  rapidity  to  a  fine  strategic  position  near  the 
door,  whence  a  further  retreat  to  the  outer  hallway  would  be 
feasible  if  necessary,  O'Rourke  thrust  aside  the  page  he  had 
just  blackened  and  took  up  another.  With  the  fire  of  grim 
purpose  in  his  glance  he  settled  himself  to  a  fresh  start 

[343] 


Terence  O'Rourke,  Gentleman  Adventurer 

"  My  dear  Chambret  "  (he  wrote) : 

"'Tis  no  manner  of  use.  I  am  not  a  polite  letter  writer. 
This  I  tell  you  frankly,  having  no  intent  to  deceive.  The 
truth  is  that  this  will  be  about  the  'steenth  start  I  have  made 
to  this  note  —  and  so  far,  praises  be!  the  most  promising. 
Being  in  a  hurry  to  get  this  off  within  the  next  two  hours, 
which  I  am,  this  must  serve  —  or  nothing  will.  At  the  same 
time,  I'm  appreciative  of  the  fact  that  'tis  the  deuce  of  a  poor 
hand  I  am  to  write  letters,  and  I'm  sorry  for  yourself,  who'll 
have  to  wade  through  it  all. 

"Nevertheless,  I  feel  expansive,  and  it's  myself  who  will 
be  opening  my  mind  and  heart  to  you,  and  probably  at 
length  —  since  I  am  unskilled  in  the  pruning  of  my  thoughts 
to  fit  in  a  certain  number  of  words.  Faith!  telegrams  were 
always  an  uncommon  expense  to  me ! 

"I  am  here  in  Tangiers  —  a  fact  of  which  you  will  be  sus- 
picious the  minute  you  lay  eyes  on  the  note-paper  and  the 
postmark.  No  matter.  When  you  receive  it,  it  is  myself 
who  will  be  in  a  neater,  cleaner  land  than  this  —  and  glad 
am  I  of  the  prospect.  I  leave  this  night  for  the  old  country. 
And  you  will  please  to  address  your  answer  to  The  O'Rourke 
himself  (who  is  now  me),  Castle  O'Rourke,  County  Galway, 
Ireland,  U.  K. 

"  It's  the  matter  of  a  year,  more  or  less,  since  I  left  ye  in 
Liitzelburg,  and  by  that  same  token  it's  the  diwle  of  a  long 
time,  and  it's  much  we'll  have  to  tell  one  another,  I'm  hope- 
ful, when  next  we  meet.  During  that  time,  it's  not  a  word 
you  have  sent  me  of  yourself  nor  your  affairs;  though  I  un- 
derstand from  other  sources  that  all's  well  with  you  and 
Madame  la  Grande  Duchesse  —  to  whom  you  will  kindly 
convey  my  respects  and  best  wishes.  You  are  a  fortunate 
man.  Faith,  I  wish  I  could  say  as  much  for  myself! 

[3441 


The  Homeward  Bound 

"Not  that  I  would  blame  you  for  the  neglect.  'Tis  as 
much  my  own  fault  as  yours.  I  despise  letter  writing,  as  I've 
said  before.  And  what  with  wandering  up  and  down  upon 
the  face  of  the  earth,  seeking  what  I  might  devour,  like  the 
Old  Gentleman  in  the  Good  Book  —  may  he  fly  away  with 
himself ! — and  going  hungry  a  good  part  of  the  time  at  that, 
and  bearing  with  Danny  —  whom  I  picked  up  in  Alexandria, 
by  the  way  —  and  having  a  good  time,  truth  to  tell,  and  doing 
not  so  badly  in  a  money  way,  though  my  income  has  been, 
as  usual,  casual,  and  what  with  the  news  that's  come  to  me 
now,  this  very  bright  and  beautiful  morning,  of  my  poor  old 
Uncle  Peter,  one  of  the  best  men  who  ever  lived,  who's  finally 
had  the  decency  and  courtesy  to  die  —  God  rest  his  soul!  — 
which  rest  he  will  be  needing  in  the  Hereafter,  I'm  convinced; 
for  a  meaner  old  skinflint  and  curmudgeon  never  trod  the 
old  sod  and  refused  to  accommodate  his  affectionate  nephew 
with  enough  money  to  pay  even  a  part  of  his  debts,  thus  forc- 
ing the  tender  lad  to  go  out  into  the  cold  and  heartless  world 
and  seek  his  fortune,  which  he  has  been  a  long  time  finding 

—  my  dear  Uncle  Peter,  I  was  saying,  has  died  and  left  me 

—  because  he  could  not  help  it  and  for  no  other  reason,  the 
mean  old  miser,  himself  having  no  nearer  of  kin  —  a  pile  of 
gray  rock  and  green  moss  called  Castle  O'Rourke,  together 
with  two  hundred  acres  of  peat  bog  and  a  few  shillings  that 
should  have  been  mine  long  ago  if  I'd  had  my  rights,  to  say 
nothing  of  several  expensive  suits  in  litigation  of  which  I 
know  nothing  at  all  and  care  less,  but  which  my  solicitors 
advise  me  he  willed  to  me  especially  in  a  damnable  codicil, 
whatever  that  may  be  — 

"But  wherever  at  all  I  am  in  that  sentence  I  shall  never 
tell  you,  my  dear  man,  for  I  don't  know.  What  I'm  trying 
to  tell  you  is  this:  that  the  O'Rourke  is  at  last  come  into  his 

[345] 


Terence  O'Rourke,  Gentleman  Adventurer 

own,  praises  be  and  no  thanks  to  Uncle  Peter,  whom  I  verily 
believe  lived  ten  years  longer  than  he  really  wanted  to,  just 
to  keep  me  out  of  my  due ! 

"And  now  I  am  resolved  to  settle  down  and  lead  a  quiet 
and  peaceful  life  for  the  rest  of  my  days.  I'll  never  again 
lift  a  hand  against  any  man  either  in  anger  or  for  the  love  of 
the  fight.  And  if  you  dare  laugh,  or  even  so  much  as  chuckle, 
at  me  for  saying  that,  I  give  you  my  word  that  I'll  call  you  out 
and  run  you  through,  friendship  or  no  friendship,  Chambret ! 

"Now,  the  meat  of  all  this  lies  in  the  fact  that,  so  soon  as  I 
can  settle  my  affairs  I  will  be  strolling  over  to  Paris,  and  I 
shall  count  upon  your  meeting  me,  if  you  still  love  me,  with 
word  of  the  whereabouts  of  the  one  woman  in  all  the  world 
for  whom  I  give  the  snap  of  my  fingers.  There's  no  need 
naming  names,  but  in  case  there  should  exist  in  your  mind 
any  confusion  as  to  the  identity  of  the  particular  lady  in  ques- 
tion, I'll  just  whisper  to  you  that  she's  Madame  la  Princesse, 
Beatrix  de  Grandlieu. 

"Where  is  she,  Chambret?  Don't  be  telling  me  she's 
married,  for  myself  wont  believe  a  word  of  it.  Faith,  she 
promised  to  wait  for  me,  and  now  'tis  no  penniless  Irish  ad- 
venturer who  is  languishing  for  her,  but  The  O'Rourke  — 
you  have  my  permission  to  inform  her  —  landed  proprietor 
himself  and  as  good  a  man  as  ever  walked  in  shoe  leather. 

"Is  she  happy?  Does  she  talk  of  me?  Would  she,  do 
you  think,  be  glad  to  see  me  ?  Where  can  I  find  her,  Cham- 
bret? And  when?  In  a  single  word  —  Speak  out,  man! 
Don't  you  know  I'm  faint  with  longing  for  her?  —  in  a  word 
does  she  still  love  the  O'Rourke?  I  can't  live  without  her, 
old  friend,  now  that  I'm  rich  enough  to  support  a  wife,  and 
the  man  that  tries  to  win  her  from  me  will  be  sorry  for  the 
rest  of  his  life! 

[346] 


The  Homeward  Bound 

"  Tell  her  from  me,  that  I  have  on  my  watch  chain  the  half 
«>f  a  sovereign  that  — " 

"Yer  honor!" 

"Go  to  thunder!" 

"  But  yer  honor  — " 

"I'll  'honor'  ye,  ye  omadhaun!  Get  the  deuce  out  av 
here,  before  I  — " 

Danny,  who  had  quietly  finished  his  task  of  packing  and 
had  slipped  away,  leaving  O'Rourke  in  the  heat  of  composi- 
tion and  dead  to  the  world,  on  returning  had  merely  ven- 
tured to  stick  the  tip  of  his  snub  nose  and  the  corner  of  one 
eye  around  the  edge  of  the  door.  From  this  vantage  point 
he  dared  persist,  emboldened  by  necessity. 

" Yer  honor,  'tis—" 

"D'ye  want  me  to  flay  ye  alive?" 

"The  min  f'r  th'  troonks!"  shouted  Danny  defiantly. 

"What's  that?" 

O'Rourke  paused  and  put  down  his  pen  with  a  sigh. 

"'Tis  the  stheamer  that  will  be  in  in  half  an  hour,  yer 
honor — " 

"Very  well,  then.  I'm  coming,"  said  O'Rourke  pacifi- 
cally. 

But  it  was  with  regret  that  he  added  a  hastily  scrawled 
signature  to  his  letter  to  Chambret,  then  sealed  and  addressed 
it.  Calling  Danny,  he  handed  him  the  missive,  with  strict 
injunctions  to  let  nothing  deter  him  from  posting  it  without 
the  least  delay;  and,  rising,  O'Rourke  left  the  Hotel  d'Angle- 
terre  and  strolled  down  to  the  water-front  deliberately,  watch- 
ing the  mail-boat  steam  slowly  into  the  roadstead  —  the 
vessel  that  was  to  bear  him  away  from  Tangiers,  away  from 
the  East,  away  from  Romance.  He  found  himself  almost 
sorry  that  he  was  to  know  no  more  this  life  that  he  had  chosen 

[347] 


Terence  O'Rourke,  Gentleman  Adventurer 

' —  and  yet  the  memory  of  the  princess  of  his  dreams  lured 
him  northwards  irresistibly. 

As  he  waited,  upon  a  pier-head,  for  the  boat  which  was  to 
bear  him  and  Danny  and  their  luggage  to  the  steamer,  a  man 
came  bounding  hurriedly  through  the  precipitous  streets  of 
Tangiers,  and  caught  him  almost  at  the  last  moment,  —  a 
young  man,  with  a  glowing,  happy  face,  breathing  heavily 
because  of  his  haste. 

"I  have  come  to  bid  you  God-speed,  O'Rourke,"  said 
William  Everett  Senet,  Consul- General,  grasping  the  ad- 
venturer's ready  hand.  "And  —  and  I  suppose  I  am  wrong 
to  feel  this  way,  but  I  have  good  news  —  of  a  sort." 

O'Rourke  lifted  his  brows.  "The  Count  of  Seyn- Alt- 
berg?"  he  asked. 

Senet  nodded.  "Von  Wever  confessed  —  you  know. 
We  found  the  poor  fellow  —  the  count —  But  there's  no 
profit  going  over  that.  He  —  it  was  terrible;  he  was  beyond 
aid.  Died  this  morning,  early.  Von  Wever's  gone  inland 
.  .  .  hunting!" 

"And  yourself?" 

"Oh,  I've  sent  in  my  resignation,"  said  young  Senet. 
"I'm  going  to  take  Nellie  home  —  the  countess,  I  mean  — " 
he  blushed  furiously  —  "just  as  soon  as  my  successor  ar- 
rives." 

"That's  right,"  said  O'Rourke.  "Me  boy,  'tis  no  place 
for  the  likes  of  ye  —  this  Tangiers.  May  ye  both  be  happy ! " 


1348] 


CHAPTER  XVI 

THE  TWO  MESSAGES 

(Copy  of  cablegram  received  by  O'Rourke  upon  his  ar- 
rival in  Ireland.) 

Madame  has  need  of  you.    Come.    Imperative. 

A.  CHAMBRET. 

It  was  a  cold  night  and  a  wet  one  in  Paris  when  O'Rourke 
arrived  at  the  Gare  du  Nord;  it  was,  in  point  of  exactness, 
nearly  two  o'clock,  on  a  moist  and  chilly  December  morning. 

The  Irishman,  haggard  and  worn  with  the  hardship  of 
continuous  traveling,  by  night  and  day,  from  County  Galway 
to  Paris  posthaste,  darted  out  of  the  railway  terminal  as  im- 
patiently as  if  he  had  just  been  fresh  from  a  long  night's  sleep 
in  his  bed,  with  Danny  tagging  disconsolately  in  his  master's 
wake,  and,  since  he  dared  not  swear  at  O'Rourke,  melo- 
diously cursing  the  luggage  which  had  fallen  to  his  care. 

The  two  of  them  piled  into  a  fiacre  and  were  whirled  rapidly 
across  Paris  to  Chambret's  residence  in  the  Rue  Royale; 
which  turned  out  to  be  nothing  more  nor  less  than  that 
happily  married  gentleman's  one-time  bachelor  apartments. 

Despite  the  lateness  of  the  hour,  O'Rourke's  determined 
and  thunderous  assaults  upon  the  door  finally  were  rewarded 
by  a  vision  of  a  red  night-capped  concierge,  from  whom  the 
information  was  finally  extracted,  with  much  difficulty,  that 
Monsieur  Chambret  was  from  home  —  that  he  had  left  two 

[349] 


days  since  for  the  provinces,  or  for  Italy,  or  for  Germany,  o? 
perhaps  for  a  trip  around  the  world.  The  concierge  did  not 
know  and  doggedly  asserted  that  he  did  not  care  —  that  is 
to  say,  his  demeanor  continued  surly  enough  and  altogether 
annoying  until  O'Rourke  happened  to  mention  his  own 
name. 

Thereupon  a  distinct  change  was  noticeable  in  the  de- 
meanor of  that  concierge.  He  prefaced  all  things  by  de- 
manding mysteriously  the  name  of  O'Rourke's  valet,  and 
the  color  of  that  person's  hair,  which  having  been  pronounced 
respectively  to  be  Danny  and  red,  the  concierge  with  alacrity 
invited  O'Rourke  to  ascend  to  Monsieur  Chambret's  apart- 
ments, at  the  same  time  declaring  himself  to  be  possessed  of 
a  letter  intrusted  to  him  for  delivery  to  O'Rourke  upon  his 
arrival  in  Paris. 

Accordingly,  O'Rourke  and  Danny  mounted  five  flights  of 
steps  and  were  admitted  to  the  apartments,  and,  the  gas  hav- 
ing been  lighted  by  the  concierge,  O'Rourke  was  permitted  to 
peruse  the  communication.  Being  translated,  it  ran  some- 
what to  the  following  effect : 

MY  DEAR  COLONEL:  Nothing  could  have  been  more  oppor- 
tune than  the  receipt  of  your  note.  Only  the  previous  day  I  had 
received  a  call  from  a  trusted  sen-ant  of  madame's,  who  gave  me 
a  message  which  madame  had  not  deemed  wise  to  trust  to  paper; 
together  with  the  little  packet,  herewith  inclosed,  which  I  was 
requested  to  fonvard  to  you.  I  did  not  then  know  your  where- 
abouts. To  me  there  is  something  wonderful  in  the  fact  that  I 
now  do  know. 

This  will  be  left  with  the  concierge,  who  has  instructions  not  to 
deliver  it  into  any  hands  save  those  of  Colonel  Terence  O'Rourke, 
whose  valet  is  a  red-headed  Irishman  named  Danny.  I  take 
these  precautions  for  reasons  which  you  will  readily  understand, 
as  you  read  on. 

By  the  time  this  is  handed  you,  I  shall  be  at  Montbar,  whither 
I  trust  you  will  follow  me  at  your  earliest  convenience.  Nay,  I 

[  3. So  1 


The  Two  Messages 

know  that  you  will  arrive  there  without  a  minute's  delay  —  else 
you  are  not  the  impetuous  lover  that  once  you  were. 

Madame  is  at  Montbar  —  I  believe.  Three  days  ago  she  was 
in  Paris.  Since  then — since  communicating  with  me,  that  is — • 
she  has  mysteriously  disappeared.  But  I  happen  to  be  cognizant 
of  the  fact  that,  within  the  week,  an  announcement  will  be  pub- 
lished in  the  Parisian  newspapers  of  her  contract  to  marry  Duke 
Victor,  of  Grandlieu,  brother  of  that  Prince  Felix  whom  I  had 
the  good  fortune  to  exterminate  during  the  Lemercier-Saharan 
affair,  thus  making  madame  a  widow. 

Duke  Victor  is  a  worthy  brother  to  Felix.  I  scarce  need  elab- 
orate. Probably  you  are  aware  of  his  reputation;  since  the  death 
of  Felix  he  has  come  to  be  regarded  as  the  most  notorious  rime  of 
all  Europe,  as  well  as  the  most  conscienceless  and  skilful  duelist. 

Of  course,  you  understand  that  nothing  but  the  most  persist- 
ent and  the  strongest  pressure  in  addition  to  your  continued 
silence  could  ever  have  induced  madame  to  consent  to  marry  this 
man.  Victor  himself  is  a  man  of  undoubted  charm;  he  has  fas- 
cinations at  his  command  which  are  not  to  be  regarded  lightly  — 
even  by  The  O'Rourke  of  Castle  O'Rourke.  His  personality  is 
at  once  magnetic  and  repellent.  In  other  words,  he  is  a  man 
calculated  to  entrance  a  woman's  fancy. 

Moreover,  I  repeat,  you  were  not  upon  the  ground. 

Notwithstanding  all  this,  however  —  notwithstanding  the  fact 
that  madame  has  agreed  to  put  her  name  to  the  marriage  con- 
tract, your  influence  is  feared.  To  prevent  her  meeting  you, 
madame  has  been  spirited  away  to  Montbar.  Of  this  there 
can  be  little  doubt;  her  servant  confided  to  me  madame's  fear 
that  something  of  the  sort  might  take  place,  that  she  might  be 
kept  in  seclusion  until  the  marriage  was  an  accomplished  fact. 

For  all  of  which  you  are  entitled  to  feel  complimented. 

I  am  going  to  Montbar  —  which,  as  you  are  doubtless  aware^ 
is  the  capital  city  of  the  principality  of  Gratidlien  —  at  once,  to 
be  upon  the  ground,  ready  to  render  whatever  service  I  may.  I 
shall  lodge  at  the  Hotel  des  Etrangers  under  my  own  name.  I 
should  advise  you,  however,  to  come  to  Grandlieu  incognito  ~~ 
as  an  English  milord.  I  should  also  counsel  you  to  come  at 
once,  and  shall  look  for  you  hourly.  Possibly  I  may  have  good 
news  for  you,  monsieur;  for,  if  I  can  pick  a  quarrel  with  Duke 
Victor,  he  will  be  as  good  as  a  dead  man  from  the  moment. 
I  am,  devotedly, 

ADOLPH  CHAMBRET. 
[351] 


Terence  O'Rourke,  Gentleman  Adventurer 

O'Rourke  replaced  the  letter  in  its  envelope,  frowning 
thoughtfully. 

"Faith,"  he  said  aloud,  "'tis  something  to  have  made  a 
friend  like  Chambret  —  the  saints  presarve  him!" 

And  eagerly  he  opened  the  little  packet  which  Chambret 
had  mentioned  as  an  enclosure.  All  during  his  reading  of 
the  letter  it  had  lam  squeezed  tight  in  the  palm  of  O'Rourke's 
clenched  fist.  Now  he  regarded  it  tenderly  ere  breaking  the 
seals  —  a  round,  small  package,  no  broader  than  a  silver 
dollar,  though  twice  as  thick,  wrapped  in  heavy,  opaque 
paper  and  protected  by  many  seals  of  violet-hued  wax,  bear- 
ing above  the  arms  of  Grandlieu  the  initial  "B."  It  was 
entirely  unaddressed. 

"Beatrix!"  whispered  O'Rourke  softly.  He  glanced 
hastily  around  the  apartment,  discovering  that  Danny  had 
fallen  asleep  in  a  chair;  he  was  practically  alone,  and  he 
raised  the  packet  to  his  lips  and  kissed  the  seals.  "  Beatrix ! " 
he  breathed. 

He  opened  the  small  blade  of  his  penknife  and  ran  it  under 
the  edge  of  the  wrapper,  so  preserving  the  seals  intact;  for 
had  she  not  impressed  them  with  those  hands  for  whose 
caress  the  heart  of  O'Rourke  was  fairly  faint? 

Something  fell  into  his  hand  —  the  half  of  a  golden  coin  — 
a  broken  English  sovereign,  in  fact.  O'Rourke's  eyes 
glowed  as  he  fitted  it  to  the  other  half,  which  hung  depend- 
ent from  his  wratch  guard. 

"Sweetheart!"  he  said.  "Ye  promised  me  ye'd  send 
it  —  when  ye  needed  me  sword !  Please  God,  I'll  not 
be  too  late  to  save  ye  from  that  black-hearted  scoundrel, 
Victor!" 

But  there  was  something  else,  and  it  was  with  a  rapidly 
beating  heart  that  O'Rourke  removed  it  from  the  wrapper 

[352] 


The  Two  Messages 

and  held  it  to  the  light.  This  was  a  tiny  miniature,  no  larger 
than  a  man's  thumb  nail,  wrought  with  marvelous  skill  by 
some  painter  who  had  seen  beneath  the  face,  deep  into  the 
soul,  of  his  subject. 

For  the  face  that  looked  out  from  the  dark  background 
was  very  lovely  —  the  features  of  a  most  wonderfully  beauti- 
ful woman. 

But  it  was  her  eyes  which  held  him  as  one  bewitched. 
Large  eyes  they  were,  and  dark,  and  gently  smiling  beneath 
their  deep  fringe  of  dark  lashes.  And  out  of  their  depths  the 
woman's  soul  flamed  to  greet  O'Rourke;  the  love  that  she 
bore  him  gleamed  and  glowed  therein,  —  even  as  he  had 
.Seen  it  glow  when  he  had  loved  her,  long  years  past,  undy- 
ing and  undoubting,  faithful  unto  the  end,  whatever  that 
might  be  when  it  should  come. 

"This,"  he  said,  awed,  "is  a  miracle  —  a  miracle,  sweet- 
heart —  this  portrait  of  ye.  Faith,  'tis  beyond  belief,  so  real 
it  makes  your  presence  seem,  dearest.  And  d'ye  think — or 
does  Chambret  think  —  that  I  can  look  into  those  eyes  and 
believe  that  ye  are  marrying  this  fellow,  Duke  Victor,  of  your 
own  choosing?  Faith,  no!  The  sovereign  —  that  is  to  tell 
me  ye  need  me.  But  this  —  this  is  to  tell  me  ye  love  me  still, 
sweetheart!  Sure,  and  wild  horses  wouldn't  be  keeping  me 
from  ye  now!" 

For  a  long  time  he  stood,  gazing  upon  the  miniature  with  a 
kindling  eye. 

It  was  with  a  start  that  he  was  roused  by  the  footsteps  of 
the  concierge  on  the  stairway;  and  it  was  with  smoldering 
resentment  that  he  realized  that  unsentimental  Danny  was 
snoring  peacefully  in  Chambret's  armchair. 

"Call  another  fiacre!"  he  instructed  the  concierge.  "And 
then  come  back  and  lock  up  these  rooms.  'Tis  ourselves 

[353] 


Terence  O'Rourke,  Gentleman  Adventurer 

that  won't  be  troubling  ye  ten  minutes  longer.  Yes  —  run 
along. 

"And,  Danny!"  He  stepped  across  the  room  and  stirred 
with  the  toe  of  his  shoe  his  servant's  recumbent  form. 
"Danny,  ye  lazy  gossoon,  wake  up,  before  I  take  strenuous 
means  to  wake  ye.  Come,  ye  scut,  move!" 

Already  his  plans  were  formulated  and  solidifying  into 
determinations.  He  communicated  them  to  Danny,  as  the 
fiacre  conveyed  them  rapidly  to  the  Gare  de  1'Est.  And 
Danny,  with  an  eye  toward  his  personal  comfort,  was  swift 
to  subscribe  unto  them. 


THE  ROAD  TO  PARADISE 

ALONE  in  his  compartment,  the  adventurer  slept  fitfully 
throughout  the  morning  run,  and,  indeed,  for  the  better  part 
of  the  following  day,  while  the  train  drummed  swiftly  over 
the  plains  of  old  Champagne,  Burgundy,  and  Franche- 
Comte. 

At  eleven  o'clock  that  night  he  was  roused  from  a  nap  by  a 
hand  that  clapped  him  heartily  upon  his  shoulder.  He  sat 
up,  blinking,  yawning,  stretching  himself,  and  shivering;  for 
they  were  then  in  the  mountains,  and  the  night  air  is  chill 
and  penetrating  in  those  high  altitudes. 

"Well?"  he  demanded  sourly.     "What  is  it  now?" 

The  train  had  come  to  a  halt.  Through  the  open  door  of 
the  compartment  naught  was  visible  save  the  blank  darkness 
of  a  winter's  night,  Binder  a  sky  shrouded  with  a  pall  of  lower- 
ing clouds.  Near  at  hand  a  small  hand  lantern  swung  a  foot 
or  more  above  the  ground,  its  rays  lighting  up  a  patch  of 
sodden  earth  perhaps  a  yard  in  diameter,  and  silhouetting 
the  boots  and  gaiters  of  a  man,  the  upper  half  of  whose 
body  was  invisible. 

Bending  over  O'Rourke  were  two  others  —  the  guard  and 
a  uniformed  stranger,  whose  hand  still  lay  heavy  upon  the 
Irishman's  shoulder  as  he  continued  to  peer  intently  into 
his  face. 

"  'Tis  to  be  hoped,"  growled  O'Rourke,  "  that  ye  will  know 
me  the  next  time  we  meet,  me  friend." 

[355] 


Terence  O'Rourke,  Gentleman  Adventurer 

But  he  spoke  in  English,  which  the  man  failed  to  compre- 
hend. The  look  of  suspicion  upon  his  face,  however,  was 
intensified  by  the  ring  of  the  unfamiliar  accents. 

"What  language  is  it  you  speak,  m'sieur?"  he  asked 
peremptorily. 

"English,"  responded  O'Rourke  in  execrable  French  — 
French  positively  mutilated  by  a  strong  British  accent.  "And 
what's  that  to  ye?"  he  desired  further  to  know. 

"This  is  the  frontier,  m'sieur  —  the  frontier  of  Grandlieu. 
M'sieur  will  be  pleased  to  exhibit  his  passport." 

"M'sieur  will  be  pleased  to  do  nothing  of  the  sort." 
O'Rourke  lolled  back  in  his  chair  and  pulled  his  broad- 
brimmed,  soft  hat  well  down  over  his  eyes.  "If  ye  want  to 
see  me  passport,"  he  grunted,  "ask  me  courier  for  it.  He 
has  both  his  own  and  mine.  Now,  get  out." 

But  the  officer  of  Grandlieu's  frontier  guard  lingered. 

"And  m'sieur's  courier?"  he  asked.     "Where  is  he?" 

"How  the  divvle  would  I  be  knowing?  In  the  third-class 
carriage  —  I  know  no  more  than  that.  Ask  for  the  courier 
for  Lord  Delisle,  and  he  will  declare  himself,  probably.  A 
small,  quick-looking  fellow  he  will  be,  with  black  hair  and 
black  eyes." 

"Many  thanks,  milord.  Pardon,  milord,  for  the  unfor- 
tunate but  necessary  intrusion.  Good  night,  milord." 

O'Rourke  snorted  and  snuggled  himself  within  his  great- 
coat, pretending  to  woo  sleep  a  second  time.  The  guard  and 
the  customs  officer  sidled  respectfully  from  the  compartment 
and  closed  the  door.  O'Rourke  did  not  move.  To  all 
appearances  he  was  sound  asleep  when  they  returned, 
chattering  excitedly. 

"But,  milord!"  expostulated  the  man  of  Grandlieu,  jerking 
open  the  door  and  a  second  time  letting  in  a  gust  of  icy  wind. 

[356] 


The  Road  to  Paradise 

O'Rourke  brought  his  feet  down  upon  the  floor  with  a 
bang.  He  opened  his  eyes,  and  they  were  shining  with 
anger.  He  opened  his  mouth,  and,  with  a  care  to  lose  noth- 
ing of  his  English  accent,  cursed  the  train,  France,  Grand- 
lieu  and  the  customs  official,  respectively  and  comprehen- 
sively. 

"Milord!"  he  snorted.  "Milord,  milord!  What  the 
diwle  milord  is  it  now  ?  Cannot  an  Englishman  have  peace 
and  privacy  in  a  compartment  which  he  has  reserved  for 
himself?  What  is  it  now?" 

"Pardon,  milord."  The  customs  official  was  deferential 
but  determined.  "Milord's  courier  is  not  on  this  train." 

O'Rourke  flew  into  a  veritable  transport  of  passion.  He 
grew  red  in  the  face  with  rage.  He  waved  frantic  fists  above 
his  head,  declaiming  with  vigor  and  rhetorical  fluency  —  in 
English.  The  two  men  were  visibly  awed  and  impressed. 
Such  profanity  —  at  least,  it  sounded  like  profanity  —  had 
never  been  heard  either  in  France  or  Grandlieu.  It  was 
wonderful,  inspiring  and  typically  British  —  to  their  com- 
prehensions, at  least,  who  were  accustomed  to  regard  every 
traveling  boor  as  an  Englishman. 

"My  courier  not  on  this  train?"  he  concluded.  "What 
diwle's  work  is  this  ?  Why  is  he  not  upon  this  train  ?  What 
does  it  mean?" 

"Perhaps,"  insinuated  the  guard,  "milord's  courier  has 
made  off  with  milord's  luggage." 

It  was  so.  O'Rourke,  otherwise  Lord  Delisle,  had  sus- 
pected as  much  from  the  first.  The  man  had  proven  what 
he  had  appeared,  an  untrustworthy  scamp.  He  had  de- 
camped with  his  employer's  valuables,  to  say  nothing  of  his 
clothing  and  his  passport.  O'Rourke's  rage  knew  no  bounds; 
and  the  men  were  correspondingly  overawed. 

[357] 


It  was  truly  unfortunate.  But,  after  all,  although  there 
was  an  order  about  something  which  they  concluded  not  to 
enlarge  upon,  but  which  evidently  had  to  do  with  English- 
men purposing  to  enter  Grandlieu,  the  milord  would  not  be 
subjected  to  further  discomfort.  It  was  not  necessary. 
One  single  infraction  of  the  rule  would  do  no  harm.  No. 
The  milord  could  proceed  to  Montbar,  from  which  place  it 
would  be  possible  for  him  to  set  forward  inquiries  after  the 
missing  courier. 

And  again  O'Rourke  found  himself  alone  in  the  compart- 
ment, with  the  train  crawling  slowly  on  and  up  a  steep  moun- 
tain side.  He  was  in  Grandlieu  at  last,  and  at  that,  despite 
the  order  which  Duke  Victor  had  evidently  issued  calling  for 
O'Rourke's  detention  at  the  frontier  —  just  as  O'Rourke 
had  suspected  he  would. 

O'Rourke  hugged  himself  in  the  grateful  warmth  of  his 
overcoat,  chuckling  inwardly  at  the  deception  he  had  prac- 
tised upon  the  two  men.  It  had  been  well  planned.  Be- 
yond doubt  the  order  for  his  apprehension  had  spoken  of  an 
Irishman  using  most  excellent  French,  and  accompanied  by 
a  red-headed  Irish  servant.  O'Rourke  congratulated  him- 
self upon  the  foresight  which  had  led  him  to  leave  Danny  in 
Paris. 

He  was,  in  point  of  fact,  just  entering  upon  the  danger 
zone.  From  that  moment  on  his  life  was  in  peril  —  or  at 
least  his  liberty  and  his  heart's  desire  were  hanging  in  the 
balance.  And  so  —  he  was  comfortable  and  well  pleased, 
as  was  strictly  in  keeping  with  the  disposition  of  the 
man. 

But  it  is  conceivable  that,  could  he  have  known  of  the  mark 
which  the  customs  official  had  unobtrusively  chalked  upon 
the  door  of  the  compartment,  O'Rourke  would  not  have  felt 

[358] 


The  Road  to  Paradise 

so  assured  of  the  man's  stupidity,  nor  so  sure  that  in  the  end 
he  would  win  to  the  side  of  Madame  la  Princesse,  Beatrix  de 
Grandlieu. 

An  hour  later  the  Irishman  left  his  compartment  and 
stepped  out  upon  the  platform  of  the  railway  station  at  Mont- 
bar. 

The  midnight  wind  that  rushed,  shrieking,  between  the 
mountainous  walls  of  the  narrow,  level  valley  which  con- 
stitutes the  major  part  of  the  principality  of  Grandlieu  —  an 
independent  state  with  a  total  area  of  some  sixty-nine  square 
miles  —  was  bitter  cold  and  searching.  The  faces  of  the 
porters  and  railway  officers,  who  were  forced  to  attend  to 
outdoor  duties,  were  blue  and  immobile  in  its  ice-laden 
breath;  and  upon  the  lighted  windows  of  the  station  itself 
frost  had  formed,  thick  and  white. 

O'Rourke,  noting  these  things,  thought  of  the  warmth  of  a 
bed  in  the  Hdtel  des  Etrangers,  and  the  comfort  of  a  meal, 
with  warm  drinks,  in  the  supper  room  of  that  hostelry,  and 
was  glad  that  he  journeyed  no  farther  that  night. 

Runners  for  the  three  most  prominent  hotels  in  the  city 
besieged  him  with  advice  bearing  upon  the  surpassing  merits 
of  their  respective  houses.  O'Rourke  listened  to  all  alike 
stolidly,  and  apparently  at  random  indicated  him  who  repre- 
sented the  Hotel  des  Etrangers,  so  avoiding  all  suspicion  of 
having  chosen  Chambret's  place  of  shelter  with  purpose 
aforethought. 

Priding  himself  upon  the  neatness  of  this  little  strategy,  he 
climbed  into  a  hack  and  settled  himself  for  what  he  was  as- 
sured would  be  no  more  than  a  ten  minutes'  drive. 

His  eyes  closed  and  he  nodded,  thinking  dreamily  of  the 
fair  face  pictured  in  that  miniature  which  rested  above  his 
heart.  The  hack  plunged  on  through  the  night,  rattling  and 

[359] 


Terence  O'Rourke  t  Gentleman  Adventurer 

bouncing  over  a  road  broad  and  well  macadamized.  At 
intervals  electric  lights  illuminated  the  vehicle's  interior  with 
a  bluish  and  frosty  radiance.  Buildings,  stark  and  drear, 
unlighted,  loomed  on  the  roadside. 

Time  dragged.  It  began  to  seem  a  long  ten  minutes. 
O'Rourke  had  understood  that  the  railway  station  was  situ- 
ated something  like  a  mile  beyond  the  limits  of  the  city  of 
Montbar,  but  still  —  a  glance  out  of  the  window  showed  him 
that  the  bordering  line  of  houses  was  no  longer  on  either  side 
of  the  road.  The  electric  lights,  also,  seemed  more  infre- 
quently spaced;  the  intervals  of  blank  obscurity  were  longer; 
and  when  the  illumination  did  come,  it  showed  nothing  but 
frozen  fields  stretching  off  into  the  darkness. 

Moreover,  the  carriage  appeared  to  be  ascending  a  steep 
grade.  O'Rourke  puckered  his  brows,  puzzled.  Had  he 
mistaken  the  hotel  runner?  Or  had  the  uncouth  French 
which  he  had  affected  conveyed  the  wrong  meaning  to  his 
hearers'  comprehensions  ? 

He  leaned  forward  and  rapped  smartly  on  the  window 
pane.  Promptly  the  vehicle  slowed  its  speed,  and  presently 
it  came  to  a  halt.  O'Rourke  heard  the  driver  climbing  down 
from  the  box,  and  the  rattle  of  a  carriage  lamp  as  it  was  de- 
tached from  its  place. 

" Curse  the  fool!"  grumbled  the  Irishman.  "All  I  wanted 
was  a  word  with  him." 

A  glow  of  light  filled  the  interior  of  the  vehicle  from  the 
right-hand  window.  Simultaneously  the  left-hand  door  was 
jerked  open  and  a  man  stepped  in. 

O'Rourke  sat  still,  looking  into  the  mouth  of  a  revolver. 
To  sit  still  was  the  course  of  prudence.  He  could  do  nothing 
else.  His  own  revolvers  were  in  the  hand  bag  on  the  floor  of 
the  vehicle.  But  he  was  biting  his  lip  with  vexation,  at  the 

[360] 


The  Road  to  Paradise 

thought  that  he  had  blundered  so  blindly  into  a  trap  so  self- 
evident. 

The  intruder  was  a  man  larger  in  every  way  than  was  the 
Irishman  himself;  and  with  the  odds  of  the  revolver  in  his 
favor,  he  had  O'Rourke  entirely  at  his  mercy.  He  was 
prompt  to  press  the  muzzle  of  it,  a  ring  of  frozen  steel,  against 
the  Irishman's  forehead. 

"Monsieur  is  armed?"  he  inquired  brusquely. 

"No,"  returned  O'Rourke  sullenly. 

"Monsieur  will  not  be  angry  with  me  for  assuring  myself 
of  that  fact,  I  am  positive.  Will  monsieur  be  kind  enough 
to  remove  his  hands  from  his  pockets,  unbutton  his  overcoat 
and  then  hold  his  hands  above  his  head?" 

O'Rourke  had  no  choice.  He  did  precisely  as  he  was  bid, 
unwillingly  but  with  alacrity.  Still  holding  the  gun  to  his 
head,  the  man  patted  each  of  the  Irishman's  pockets,  with 
painstaking  thoroughness,  and  found  nothing  in  the  shape 
of  a  weapon  to  reward  his  search. 

"  That  is  very  good,"  he  announced.  "  Monsieur  will  now 
be  kind  enough  to  rebutton  his  coat  and  to  sit  very  still  for 
the  rest  of  the  journey.  The  coachman  will  presently  re- 
move the  light,  but  monsieur  will  be  so  good  as  to  believe 
that  I  can  see  in  the  dark,  and  that  any  rash  move  on  his 
part  will  be  rewarded  with  a  bullet  through  his  head.  Fran- 
fois"  —  this  to  the  driver  —  "go  ahead." 

The  light  was  replaced,  and  in  a  moment  or  two  the  horse? 
were  hammering  steadily  up  the  mountain  road.  O'Rourkt 
obeyed  orders  agreeably  enough,  debating  ways  and  means 
whereby  he  might  surprise  and  overcome  his  captor.  The 
thing  was,  possibly,  feasible.  In  the  long  patches  of  dark- 
ness between  the  lights,  he  might  spring  unexpectedly,  dash 
aside  the  revolver  and  throttle  the  man.  On  the  other  hand> 

[361] 


Terence  O'Rourke,  Gentleman  Adventurer 

he  might  not  succeed.  The  game  was  not  exactly  worth  the 
candle.  It  was  better  to  wait,  to  see  what  opportunity  the 
future  might  offer.  When  no  other  chance  remained,  it  was 
all  very  well  to  stake  everything  on  a  single  throw;  but  until 
that  time,  O'Rourke,  for  all  his  daring,  was  the  man  to  weigh 
thoroughly  the  advisability  of  each  least  action. 

"May  I  inquire,"  he  said  at  length,  in  his  execrable  French 

—  it  was  painful  even  to  O'Rourke  to  assume  such  an  accent 

—  "  what  is  meant  by  this  outrageous  treatment  of  an  English- 
man?" 

The  man,  sitting  opposite  him  in  the  gloom,  laughed  softly. 

"Monsieur  the  Colonel  doubtless  is  aware  of  our  inten- 
tions," he  suggested. 

"Monsieur  the  Colonel?"  repeated  O'Rourke.  "I  assure 
ye  that  there  is  some  mistake  here,  monsieur — " 

"Pray  spare  yourself  the  trouble,  Colonel  O'Rourke. 
You  did  very  well.  Permit  me  to  congratulate  you  upon 
confusing  our  man  at  the  frontier;  but  still  the  odds  were  all 
against  you.  We  have  been  expecting  you  daily,  ever  since 
Monsieur  Chambret  cabled  you.  Our  agents  in  Paris 
watched  you  last  night,  and  saw  you  take  the  train  for  Mont- 
bar.  Even  your  —  pardon  me  —  your  infernal  French, 
could  not  prevail  against  such  information.  Monsieur  the 
Colonel  is  bold,  but  I  trust  he  will  not  be  angry  if  I  venture 
to  observe  that  in  this  instance  he  has  acted  somewhat 
thoughtlessly.  But,  perhaps,  monsieur,  you  did  not  think 
that  we  would  be  so  vigilant." 

O'Rourke  did  not  reply.  He  was  caught;  there  was  no 
disguising  that  unpalatable  fact.  Anything  that  he  might 
say  would  do  no  good;  moreover,  he  feared  to  speak  lest  the 
anger  in  his  voice  should  betray  his  deep  chagrin. 

"No?  You  refuse  to  answer  me,  monsieur?  Believe 

[362] 


The  Road  to  Paradise 

me,  I  should  be  desolated"  —  the  man  mocked — "to  be  lost 
to  your  good  graces,  Colonel  O'Rourke,  merely  because  we 
have  succeeded  in  outwitting  you.  In  all  fairness,  that  was  our 
business.  Could  you  have  expected  us  to  act  otherwise?" 

"No,"  admitted  O'Rourke,  caught  by  the  fellow's  tone  of 
good-natured  raillery;  "but  surely  ye  don't  expect  me  to  be 
pleased  with  meself,  monsieur?  Faith!"  And  he  laughed 
bitterly. 

" So,  then,  I  have  made  no  mistake,  after  all?  You  admit 
that  you  are  Colonel  Terence  O'Rourke?" 

"Admit  it,  me  friend?  Sure,  and  ye  did  not  expect  me  to 
deny  it?  Whilst  there's  a  fighting  chance,  monsieur,  I  am 
prepared  to  lie  with  the  best  of  ye;  but  when  ye  have  me, 
body,  soul  and  breeches  —  I'll  throw  up  me  hands,  just  as  I 
did  when  ye  asked  me  to,  so  politely.  But,"  he  continued, 
talking  to  make  time,  and  to  throw  the  fellow  off  his  guard  if 
possible,  "could  ye  favor  me  with  a  bit  of  a  word  as  to  me 
probable  fate,  monsieur  ?  Sure,  and  'tis  no  crime  for  a  man, 
even  an  Irishman,  to  journey  into  Grandlieu?" 

"No  —  no  crime,  monsieur.  But,  perhaps,  an  indis- 
cretion. Shall  we  call  it  a  breach  of  international  etiquette, 
monsieur  —  taking  into  consideration  all  the  circumstances  ?  " 

"  Faith,  would  ye  make  me  out  a  Power,  together  with  that 
precious  duke  of  yours?"  O'Rourke  laughed. 

"The  comparison  is  not  unapt,  monsieur."  His  captor 
bowed  —  and  maintained  the  muzzle  of  the  revolver  within 
a  foot  of  O'Rourke's  heart.  "Not  unapt,"  he  repeated; 
"which  you  are  to  consider  as  the  reason  why  I  am  taking 
such  care  of  you,  monsieur." 

"I  would  ye  were  less  careful.  Is  there  anything  now, 
monsieur,  which  might  tempt  ye  to  carelessness  —  for  one 
little  moment?" 

[363] 


Terence  O'Rourke,  Gentleman  Adventurer 

There  was  an  instant's  silence.  Then  the  man  chuckled 
disagreeably.  "We  are  arrived,"  he  announced  briefly, 
glancing  out  of  the  window  for  the  fraction  of  a  second,  and 
immediately  resuming  his  vigilance. 

The  carriage  stopped.  There  were  the  sounds  of  voices, 
of  rapid  footsteps,  of  the  jingling  of  bits  and  the  pawing  of 
hoofs,  clear  upon  the  frosty  air.  After  what  seemed  an  in- 
terminable wait,  something  clanged  loudly  metallic,  and  a 
face  appeared  at  the  window.  The  door  was  opened  with  a 
jerk,  and  a  man's  voice  invited  "Monsieur  the  Colonel 
O'Rourke"  to  be  pleased  to  alight. 

He  was  not  pleased;  but  an  instant's  consideration  of  the 
menacing  weapon  constrained  him  to  give  in  with  what  grace 
he  had  to  command,  and,  rising,  he  jumped  lightly  to  the 
frozen  ground.  At  once  he  was  seized  from  behind,  his  arms 
twisted  into  his  sides,  a  rope  passed  about  them  and  drawn 
tight. 

"The  divvle!"  swore  O'Rourke  —  but  under  his  breath; 
outwardly  he  maintained  an  impassive  aspect. 

Before  him  loomed  the  steep,  rock  wall  of  a  castle.  He 
had  heard  somewhat  of  this  castle  from  the  lips  of  Madame 
la  Princesse  herself,  in  former,  happier  days.  They  called 
it  Castle  Grandlieu.  It  was  centuries  old  —  a  grim  reminder 
of  the  days  when  from  this  rocky  aerie  the  lords  of  Grandlieu 
held  the  countryside  in  meek  subjection,  harrying  the  low- 
lands of  France  and  taking  toll  of  all  unfortunate  passers-by. 

It  had  been  the  whim  of  the  princes  of  Grandlieu  to  live 
in  this  castle,  keeping  it  with  all  its  medieval  atmosphere  — 
its  moat  and  drawbridge,  its  portcullis  and  battlements  and 
towers,  all  as  they  had  stood  frowning  down  upon  the  valley 
when  first  erected  back  in  the  darkness  of  the  Middle  Ages.  - 

Something  in  its  bleak  and  austere  showing  sent  a  chill  to 
[364] 


The  Road  to  Paradise 

the  marrow  of  the  Irishman.  It  bulked  as  grim  and  for- 
bidding as  2.  tomb.  It  —  who  knew  ?  —  might  be  his  tomb. 
It  was  said,  indeed,  that  Duke  Victor  was  a  famous  duelist 
and  one  invincible.  If  he  offered  O'Rourke  the  chance  to 
fight,  there  would  be  an  instant  acceptance ;  of  that  one  might 
feel  assured.  And  who  should  prophesy  the  outcome? 

Not  the  O'Rourke  of  Castle  O'Rourke,  be  certain.  There 
was  a  legend  in  his  family  that  a  penniless  O'Rourke  was 
unconquerable;  and  vice  versa. 

Was  this,  then,  to  be  the  end  of  his  epic  ? 


[365] 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

THE  DEVIL  IN  THE  DUKE 

UNDER  the  sharp- toothed  portcullis  they  passed;  and  be« 
hind  them,  to  the  rattling  of  chains  and  the  creaking  of  rusty 
windlasses,  the  drawbridge  rose.  O'Rourke,  as  he  was  hur- 
ried across  a  courtyard,  tried  to  smile  at  this  grim  travesty; 
but  deep  in  his  heart  lurked  an  uneasiness. 

He  had  not  in  the  least  anticipated  all  this.  Otherwise,  he 
had  chanced  a  quick  death  at  the  hands  of  the  man  in  the 
carriage.  But  now,  evidently,  he  was  to  die;  and  all  pos- 
sibility of  escape  had  been  cut  off  by  the  raising  of  that  draw. 
He  stood,  for  all  he  knew  to  the  contrary,  without  a  friend  in 
that  huge  pile  of  masonry  set  upon  a  cliff  on  a  mountain  side, 
concerning  any  portion  of  which  he  knew  not  the  least  thing 
in  the  world. 

Well,  his  part  was  to  hold  up  his  head  and  take  what  had 
been  prepared  for  him  with  the  easiest  grace  he  could  assume. 
Time  out  of  number  he  had  laughed  back  into  the  jaws  of 
death;  and,  after  all,  it  was  childish  of  him  to  assume  that 
Duke  Victor  would  dare  a  murder  in  order  to  remove  from 
his  path  so  insignificant  a  stumbling  block  as  the  O'Rourke 
—  the  empty-handed  Irish  adventurer. 

But  assuredly  he  might  confidently  count  upon  a  fighting 
chance,  in  the  end.  Or  —  and  this  occurred  to  him  for  the 
first  time  —  he  was  merely  to  be  kept  a  prisoner  until  after 
the  duke's  marriage  to  Madame  la  Princesse  had  been  con- 
summated. 

[366] 


The  Devil  in  the  Duke 

That,  doubtless,  was  the  real  explanation  of  it  all.  Some- 
how, the  Irishman's  heart  lightened  in  his  breast. 

A  short  wait  had  to  be  endured,  while  his  captor  entered 
the  castle  proper.  O'Rourke  was  left  in  the  charge  of  three 
men,  who  paid  scant  heed  to  what  he  said,  but,  on  the  other 
hand,  watched  him  with  a  catlike  interest,  which  O'Rourke 
appreciated  as  highly  complimentary  to  his  reputation. 

But,  ere  long,  he  was  conducted  into  the  building,  through 
a  maze  of  echoing  passages  of  stone,  into  what  appeared  to 
be  the  more  modern  part  of  the  castle  —  that  portion, 
evidently,  wherein  the  princes  of  Grandlieu  were  accus- 
tomed to  live,  in  the  infrequent  periods  of  their  sojourns 
at  Montbar. 

Here  the  walls  were  paneled  with  a  dark  wood,  and  hung 
with  rich  tapestries;  the  floors  were  of  hard  wood,  painstak- 
ingly polished  to  a  rare  brilliancy,  and  strewn  with  heavy, 
soft  rugs  of  somber  designs.  The  air  was  warm  —  warm 
with  the  comfort  of  open  fires. 

His  captor  halted  him  on  the  threshold  of  a  heavy  door  of 
oak,  upon  which  he  knocked  thrice. 

"Enter,  messieurs."  A  clear,  even  voice  sounded  from 
the  further  side;  and  O'Rourke  was  ushered  across  the  thresh- 
old into  a  great  apartment  that,  very  likely,  had  been  the 
dining  hall  two  centuries  back  —  high-ceiled,  so  that  the  rays 
of  the  electric  lights,  set  in  lieu  of  torches  in  the  sconces  upon 
the  walls,  hardly  penetrated  the  shadows  above  them; 
and  long  and  deep,  with  a  huge  fireplace  built  in  one  end, 
and  the  other  shadowed  by  an  overhanging  balcony  draped 
with  tapestry. 

The  center  of  this  room  was  occupied  by  a  long  table 
strewn  with  books  and  papers  and  bearing  a  reading-lamp. 
The  walls  were  lined  with  racks  of  arms,  collected  with  the 

[3671 


Terence  O'Rourke,  Gentleman  Adventurer 

care  of  a  lover  of  weapons,  and  representing  all  ages  arid 
climes.  In  front  of  the  fireplace  a  canvas  had  been  stretched 
across  the  parquetry  flooring,  to  serve  for  fencing  bouts. 

It  was  an  immense  room,  and  deeply  interesting; 
O'Rourke's  eyes  lit  up  as  he  glanced  down  the  racks  of 
arms,  but  he  had  little  time  to  feast  his  martial  spirit  with 
the  sight  of  them. 

For,  standing  with  his  back  to  the  fire,  teetering  gently 
upon  his  toes,  with  hands  clasped  idly  at  his  back,  was  a  man 
whom  O'Rourke  found  little  difficulty  in  identifying  as  the 
Duke  Victor  himself,  from  his  resemblance  to  his  dead 
brother,  and  from  a  certain  air  of  domineering  confidence 
in  himself  as  well. 

Whether  or  no  he  was  a  young  man  would  have  been  hard 
to  say;  at  least,  he  had  the  air  and  the  look  of  youth  —  the 
hue  of  rich  blood  in  his  cheeks  and  the  lines  of  youth  in  his 
figure,  that  was  as  straight  and  supple  as  any  stripling's. 
He  was  something  above  middle  height,  and  as  good  a  man 
to  look  upon  as  ever  O'Rourke  had  seen  —  save,  perhaps, 
for  a  lack  of  breadth  between  his  eyes:  a  sure  index  to  a 
nature  at  least  untrustworthy,  if  not  positively  treacherous. 

O'Rourke's  captor  halted  at  the  door  and  saluted  with  a 
military  air.  For  the  first  time  O'Rourke  was  able  to  have  a 
good  look  at  him.  Now  that  he  had  thrown  aside  his  cloak, 
a  uniform  of  light  gray  adorned  with  a  sufficiency  of  gold  lace 
and  insignia  was  revealed.  From  the  straps  on  his  shoulders 
O'Rourke  calculated  that  he  was  a  captain  in  the  standing 
army  of  Grandlieu  —  wrhich,  in  all,  numbered  eighty  men 
and  officers;  or  so  the  Irishman  had  heard. 

For  the  rest  of  him,  he  was  of  a  Gallic  type  —  a  large  man, 
blond,  well-proportioned,  heavier  and  taller  than  O'Rourke, 
and  as  well  set  up.  He  was  smiling  slightly,  with  an  ironic 

[368] 


The  Devil  in  the  Duke 

air,  as  he  endured  the  Irishman's  gaze,  and  stood  at  ease 
with  one  hand  upon  the  hilt  of  a  saber  which  he  had  assumed 
since  entering  the  castle. 

Duke  Victor  was  the  first  to  speak. 

"Colonel  O'Rourke,  I  believe?"  he  said  pleasantly  enough 

—  with  the  air  of  one  greeting  an  unexpected  guest.    "  Cap- 
tain de  Brissac!" 

"Your  highness?" 

"I  observe  that  Colonel  O'Rourke's  hands  are  bound 
behind  him.  Surely  that  is  unnecessary,  in  addition  to  being 
an  indignity.  Loose  him  at  once." 

The  captain  untied  the  ropes.  O'Rourke  moistened  his 
lips  nervously,  looking  the  duke  up  and  down,  for  once  in  his 
career  at  a  loss  for  words.  But  the  duke  saved  him  the 
trouble  of  speaking. 

"Colonel,"  he  said  familiarly,  resuming  his  nonchalant 
teetering  in  front  of  the  great  fireplace,  "you  will  no  doubt 
have  complaint  to  make  in  regard  to  our  method  of  welcoming 
you  to  Grandlieu!" 

"Faith,  I  have  that!"  O'Rourke  assured  him  earnestly. 

"So  I  surmised."  The  duke  smiled.  "As  to  why  we 
have  acted  in  this  manner  —  why,  monsieur,  it's  hardly 
necessary  to  discuss  our  reasons.  I  fancy  they're  evident 
and  well  understood  by  you  and  myself." 

"Faith,  yes,"  O'Rourke  agreed.  "I'm  not  the  man  to 
deny  that.  But  I  dispute  your  right,  monsieur." 

"Oh — !"  And  the  duke  waved  a  slender,  white  hand 
airily.  "There's  no  need  of  going  into  that,  either,  my 
colonel.  You  dispute  the  right  —  I  arrogate  it  unto  myself 
and  shall  consistently  maintain  it.  No  gain  to  either  of  us 

—  to  fight  over  that.    The  point  of  the  whole  matter  is  — " 
He  paused  thoughtfully. 

[369] 


Terence  O'Rourke,  Gentleman  Adventurer 

"Now,"  assumed  O'Rourke,  "ye  seern  to  be  getting  down 
to  business." 

" Precisely,  my  friend,"  laughed  the  duke  amusedly.  "And 
it's  simple  enough,  Colonel  O'Rourke.  You  were,  to  use  the 
legal  term,  accessory  before  the  fact  of  my  brother's  —  Prince 
Felix's  —  death.  Naturally,  for  that  I  hold  you  in  no  very 
great  good  will.  And  I  understand  that  both  before  and 
after  the  mur — " 

"Monsieur!" 

"Oh,  very  well!  Before  and  after, — shall  we  say? — the 
unfortunate  accident,  you  made  love  to  the  wife  of  my 
brother  —  my  promised  wife  of  to-day." 

"  Ye  may  understand  what  ye  will,"  said  O'Rourke.  "  But 
I'll  tell  ye  this,  monsieur  the  duke,  that  when  ye  say  that 
madame  promised  to  marry  ye,  ye  lie!" 

"Strong  language,  Colonel  O'Rourke!  Upon  what  do 
you  base  such  an  assertion?" 

The  duke  was  holding  himself  well  under  control;  but  he 
had  flushed  darkly  on  hearing  the  epithet  which  O'Rourke 
had  flung  in  his  teeth  with  intent  to  provoke.  Indeed,  at 
present  all  that  the  Irishman  was  hoping  for  was  to  madden 
the  duke  into  accepting  or  issuing  a  challenge  to  a  duel. 
Then  —  well,  the  best  man  would  win. 

"I  know  that  ye  lie,"  continued  O'Rourke  evenly,  "from 
the  fact  that  within  the  week  madame  has  sent  for  me." 

"Which  means  —  what,  monsieur,  may  I  ask?" 

"It  means  that  madame  once  promised  to  be  me  wife, 
Monsieur  the  Duke;  and  that  she  is  standing  ready  to  redeem 
her  pledge.  Is  it  conceivable  that  she'd  be  promising  her 
hand  to  ye  at  the  same  time?  I  think  not." 

"Your  judgment  may  be  prejudiced,  colonel.  Madame 
may  have  changed  her  mind,  may  have  wished  to  see  you  in 


The  Devil  in  the  Duke 

order  that  she  might  inform  you  of  that  fact  —  which,  by  the 
way,  happens  to  be  the  case." 

It  was  a  view  of  it  that  never  before  had  presented  itself  to 
O'Rourke.  For  an  instant,  so  confidently  did  the  duke  ad- 
vance it,  he  was  shaken  by  a  suspicion  that  this  might  be 
the  truth. 

And  then  he  remembered  her  word-of-mouth  message  to 
Chambret  —  that  she  needed  O'Rourke  —  and  the  minia- 
ture that  she  had  sent  him,  that  intimate  portrait  of  her  whose 
eyes  had  spoken  to  him  so  eloquently  of  her  steadfast  love. 
And,  more  than  all  else,  the  remembrance  of  that  strength- 
ened O'Rourke  and  heartened  him. 

"That,"  he  said  coolly,  "is  He  number  two,  Monsieur  the 
Duke.  Faith,  if  it  were  truth,  why  did  ye  find  it  necessary 
to  spirit  madame  away?" 

"And  have  we  done  so?"  For  affected  surprise,  the 
duke's  was  almost  convincing. 

"Beyond  doubt,  ye  did." 

"Ah,  Monsieur  the  Colonel  deceives  himself.  To  be  frank 
with  you,  madame  is  at  this  moment  in  Paris,  for  all  I  know 
to  the  contrary." 

"Which  I'll  take  the  liberty  of  branding  as  lie  number 
three.  If  that  were  truth,  ye  would  not  have  troubled  to 
capture  me  before  I  could  find  it  out  for  meself." 

"Very  well,  monsieur.  Have  it  your  own  way."  As- 
suredly the  duke  had  his  temper  well  in  hand.  He  bowed 
his  head  forward,  caressing  his  chin  with  his  strong,  slender 
fingers,  and  seemed  to  ponder  O'Rourke  deeply. 

Under  this  meditative  yet  insolent  regard,  the  Irishman 
grew  restive. 

"The  divvle!"  he  cried  impatiently.  "Will  ye  be  kind 
enough  to  signify  your  intentions  with  regard  to  me,?" 


Terence  O'Rourke,  Gentleman  Adventurer 

"Exactly  what  I  was  about  to  do,  monsieur.  I  have 
brought  you  here  by  force,  for  one  reason  because  I  well 
knew  that  you  would  not  come  of  your  own  free  will.  For 
another,  I  wish  to  negotiate  with  you.  I  admit  that  you 
have  a  claim  upon  madame's  hand  —  a  claim  which,  per- 
haps, she  might  feel  called  upon  to  acknowledge,  to  be  just, 
howsoever  much  such  a  course  might  prove  distasteful  to 
her.  So  —  Monsieur  the  Colonel  O'Rourke,  what  will  buy 
you  off?" 

O'Rourke  drew  himself  up,  and  his  hands  clenched.  For 
a  moment  he  seemed  about  to  spring  at  the  duke's  throat. 
Captain  de  Brissac  started  forward,  and  even  the  duke 
betrayed  signs  of  uneasiness.  But  O'Rourke  contained 
himself. 

" Did  ye  bring  me  here  to  insult  me,  ye  scum  o'  the  earth?'* 
he  demanded  tensely.  "Faith,  if  it's  to  fight  ye  wish,  I'll 
accommodate  ye.  /  could  not  insult  you  by  branding  ye  a 
liar  to  your  face,  but,  monsieur  the  duke,  ye  have  managed 
mortally  to  affront  me!  Did  ye  mean  it,  dog?" 

The  duke's  face  was  quite  livid  with  rage.  But  his  voice 
was  steady  and  even  as  he  replied: 

"It  is  not  to  fight  that  I  wish,  Colonel  O'Rourke.  I  am 
quite  well  aware  that  nothing  could  please  you  better  than  to 
murder  me,  by  foul  means,  as  you  did  my  brother.  I  under- 
stand you  have  your  fellow,  Chambret,  in  the  town  below 
here,  and  I've  no  doubt  the  two  of  you  could  put  a  period  to 
the  Grandlieu  line,  between  you.  No,  Colonel  O'Rourke. 
I  have  asked  you  in  all  earnestness,  and  I  ask  you  again, 
knowing  as  I  do  that  you  adventurers  all  have  your  price: 
For  what  will  you  consent  to  relinquish  your  claim  upon 
madame's  hand?" 

De  Brissac's  hand  moved  toward  his  revolver,  whose  butt 

[372! 


The  Devil  in  the  Duke 

was  visible  above  the  line  of  his  belt.  O'Rourke  marked 
the  gesture,  and  the  true  significance  of  the  scene  was  quite 
abruptly  apparent  to  him. 

He  had  been  brought  here  to  be  baited  like  an  animal, 
to  the  point  where,  goaded  to  desperation  by  the  duke's 
taunts,  he  would  lose  his  temper  and  throw  himself  at 
the  man's  throat;  when  it  would  be  justifiable  to  shoot 
him  down,  just  as  one  would  a  maddened  animal,  in  self- 
defense. 

If  that,  then,  was  their  scheme,  he  was  determined  to  frus- 
trate it.  And  quickly  he  swung  about  upon  his  heel,  facing 
the  door. 

"Monsieur  the  Duke,"  he  said,  "'tis  your  privilege  to  con- 
sider yourself  challenged.  If  ye  refuse  to  meet  me,  ye  prove 
yourself  a  coward.  If  ye  consent  to  meet  me,  ye  are  this 
minute  as  good  as  a  dead  man.  But,  meanwhile,  I  am  in 
your  power.  And  the  diwle  another  word  will  ye  get  out 
of  me  till  I'm  free!" 

There  was  a  moment's  silence.  Then  the  voice  of  the 
duke,  quivering  as  though  with  amusement: 

"You  refuse  any  and  all  propositions,  then,  I  am  to  un- 
derstand?" 

O'Rourke  nodded  his  head. 

The  duke  sighed.  "I  am  sorry,  Monsieur  the  Colonel; 
we  might  have  made  an  offer  which  you  would  have  been 
glad  to  accept,  had  you  met  our  advances  in  a  different  spirit. 
As  it  is,  I  must  bid  you  good  night.  Captain  de  Brissac,  be 
kind  enough  to  escort  Colonel  O'Rourke  to  his  hotel.  Mes- 
sieurs, good  evening." 

Something  sinister  in  the  duke's  tone  —  O'Rourke  could 
not  see  his  face  —  robbed  his  words  of  their  surprise  for  the 
Irishman.  He  uttered  not  one  syllable,  however;  and  waited 

[373] 


Terence  O'Rourke,  Gentleman  Adventurer 

patiently  until  De  Brissac,  with  a  laugh,  touched  him  on  the 
arm. 

"This  way,"  he  said  softly. 

And  O'Rourke  stepped  forward  and  out  of  the  great  room, 
into  the  hallways  of  the  Castle  de  Grandlieu  —  of  which,  as 
has  been  said,  he  knew  nothing  at  all. 


[374] 


CHAPTER  XIX 

THE  DOOR  TO  ETERNITY 

FOR  some  minutes  the  two  strode  on  in  silence,  De  Brissac 
in  the  advance,  O'Rourke  watching  his  huge  shoulders  with 
a  calculating  glance,  debating  whether  or  no,  upon  necessity, 
he  could  overcome  this  man  in  a  struggle  hand  to  hand.  He 
shook  his  head  dubiously,  much  impressed  by  De  Brissac's 
evidently  ponderous  muscular  development. 

From  the  inhabited  portion  of  the  castle  they  passed  back 
into  the  more  bleak  and  uninviting  section,  where  the  air 
hung  heavy,  chill,  and  damp,  and  great  gusts  of  wind  eddied 
through  silent,  echoing  hallways.  And  they  followed,  in  the 
main  —  or,  at  least,  so  far  as  O'Rourke  could  determine  — 
the  course  by  which  they  had  entered. 

At  length  De  Brissac  paused  before  a  heavy  door,  set  deep 
in  the  walls  of  stone. 

"Colonel  O'Rourke,"  he  said,  "I  regret  that  our  carriage 
is  no  longer  at  your  disposal.  Had  you  been  otherwise 
minded,  it  might  have  been  a  different  matter.  As  it  is,  we 
have  no  choice  but  to  consider  you  a  determined  enemy,  to 
afford  whom  food,  aid  or  comfort  would  be  treason."  He 
laughed  sardonically.  "This  door,"  he  continued,  "opens 
upon  the  road.  There  is  a  little  bridge  over  the  moat,  which 
you'll  find  it  no  trouble  to  negotiate.  After  that,  the  road  is 
lighted  all  the  way  to  Montbar.  It  is  a  short  journey  at  the 
worst.  You  will  reach  the  Hdtel  des  Strangers  within  the 
hour.  Good  night." 

[3751 


Terence  Q'Rourke,  Gentleman  Adventurer 

He  swung  open  the  door.  O'Rourke  looked  into  his  eyes, 
and  smiled  contemptuously.  "A  small  lot,"  he  commented: 
"a  petty  revenge.  I'm  pleased  to  be  able  to  breathe  air  un- 
polluted by  ye,  monsieur.  Good  night." 

He  turned  and  confronted  the  black,  vacant  oblong  made 
by  the  open  door.  The  frost-laden  wind  slapped  his  cheeks 
and  pinched  his  nose.  Without,  there  was  unrelieved  night. 
O'Rourke  negatived  the  proposition,  mentally.  He  did  not 
know  what  lurked  out  there,  in  the  blackness.  He  would 
have  much  preferred  to  leave  the  castle  and  come  out  at 
once  upon  the  lighted  road.  And  he  stepped  back  toward 
De  Brissac. 

"If  'tis  not  too  great  a  strain  upon  your  courtesy,"  he  sug- 
gested, "I'd  prefer  to  leave  be  the  way  I  entered,  monsieur." 

Abruptly  he  became  aware  that  De  Brissac  was  making 
for  him  with  outstretched,  clutching  hands,  and  the  ap- 
parent intention  of  seizing  O'Rourke  and  casting  him  forth 
bodily  into  the  outer  darkness. 

The  Irishman  did  not  precisely  comprehend;  but  he  was 
quick  to  step  to  one  side  and  to  meet  De  Brissac's  rush  with  a 
blow  from  the  shoulder,  delivered  with  all  the  strength  that 
was  in  him.  It  struck  the  man's  chest,  glancing,  and  stag- 
gered him  for  the  moment;  and  that  instant  O'Rourke  im- 
proved by  grappling  with  him. 

Neither  spoke.  O'Rourke  was  bewildered,  but  in  some 
vague  way  aware  that  he  was  fighting  for  his  very  existence. 
De  Brissac  was  straining,  with  set  teeth,  to  break  the  Irish- 
man's hold  upon  him.  For  many  minutes  they  swayed  back 
and  forth  and  from  side  to  side,  there  in  the  narrow,  stone- 
walled passage  in  the  old  castle. 

At  length,  De  Brissac  stumbled  and  went  to  his  knees.  He 
was  up  again  in  a  trice,  but  in  the  struggle  to  regain  his 

[376] 


The  Door  to  Eternity 

standing  his  sword  became  in  some  way  detached  from  the 
belt,  scabbard  and  all,  and  fell  clanking  to  the  floor. 

O'Rourke  noticed  and  desired  it  greatly.  It  is  a  fine  thing 
to  have  the  hilt  of  a  good  saber  in  your  hand,  with  the  knowl- 
edge that  you  have  the  skill  and  prowess  to  wield  it.  It 
seemed  to  O'Rourke  that,  could  he  but  get  the  weapon  in  his 
grasp,  all  would  be  well  with  him,  despite  the  fact  that  he  was 
in  a  castle  infested  with  the  creatures  of  Duke  Victor. 

Gradually,  at  the  expense  of  furious  effort,  he  swung  the 
other  in  front  of  him,  with  his  back  to  the  open  doorway. 
De  Brissac  seemed  to  sense  his  intention  and  to  strive  against 
it  with  a  desperate  ferocity,  his  eyes  protruding  from  his 
head,  staring  as  if  with  terror,  his  panting  as  loud  in 
O'Rourke's  hearing  as  the  exhaust  of  an  engine.  He  dug 
his  feet  into  the  crevices  of  that  floor  of  solid  rock  and  fought 
as  one  fights  on  the  grave's  edge. 

O'Rourke  conceived  that  De  Brissac  supposed  he  could 
be  cut  down  instantly,  once  his  antagonist  managed  to  pos- 
sess himself  of  the  saber.  And  he  thought  grimly  that  De 
Brissac  was  not  so  far  wrong. 

Chance  aided  him  —  or  the  luck  of  the  O'Rourkes.  For 
an  instant  De  Brissac  managed  to  break  away;  but  as  he  did 
so,  O'Rourke's  fingers  brushed  the  hilt  of  his  revolver  in  the 
man's  belt,  and  closed  upon  it,  withdrawing  the  weapon. 

De  Brissac  spat  an  oath  between  his  teeth,  and  sprang. 
O'Rourke  was  too  quick  for  him.  There  was  no  time  to 
aim,  or  even  to  fire.  There  was  time  only  sufficient  for  him 
to  dash  the  hand  that  held  the  revolver  into  the  man's  face; 
and  O'Rourke  did  that  with  all  his  heart. 

The  man  reeled,  staggering,  caught  his  heel  upon  the 
threshold  of  the  door,  and  fell  backward,  grabbing  frantically 
at  the  empty  air.  He  shrieked  once,  and  disappeared  utterly, 

[377] 


Terence  O'Rourke,  Gentleman  Adventurer 

with  the  instantaneous  effect  of  the  vanishing  of  a  kineto- 
scopic  picture. 

For  a  moment  O'Rourke  waited,  holding  the  revolver 
ready,  expecting  any  moment  to  see  De  Brissac  rise  from  the 
ground  and  attempt  a  re-entrance  to  the  hall. 

Nothing  of  the  sort  happened,  however.  The  silence  and 
quiet  without  continued  unbroken,  save  for  the  sighing  of 
the  wind.  It  struck  O'Rourke  as  a  curious  fact  that  he  had 
not  heard  the  sound  of  the  fall.  A  dread  thought  entered 
his  brain,  and  took  possession  of  his  imagination,  and  he 
paled  with  the  horror  of  it. 

Slowly  he  picked  up  the  sword,  and  he  cautiously  advanced 
again  to  the  threshold  of  the  door.  Then  he  unsheathed  the 
weapon  and  poked  about  in  the  blackness  with  the  scabbard, 
holding  the  revolver  poised  to  repel  an  attack,  should  one 
come  —  as  he  half  hoped. 

None  came.  Abruptly  O'Rourke  threw  the  empty  scab- 
bard into  the  darkness,  listening  to  catch  the  clank  of  it  upon 
the  bridge  of  which  De  Brissac  had  spoken. 

There  was  no  sound. 

The  Irishman's  heart  seemed  to  cease  its  pulsations  for  a 
full  minute;  and  then,  far,  far  below  him,  he  heard  a  faint, 
ringing  clash. 

So!  That,  then,  had  been  the  fate  prepared  for  him  by 
Duke  Victor  and  De  Brissac  —  that  sudden  plunge  into  a 
fathomless  void,  with  a  sure,  swift  death  waiting,  at  the  end 
of  his  flight! 

Faint  and  sick  with  disgust,  trembling  as  with  a  vertigo, 
reeling  and  swaying  like  a  drunkard,  O'Rourke  managed  to 
close  the  door,  and  stagger  a  dozen  yards  or  so  away;  and 
then,  for  a  long  time,  he  stood  with  one  forearm  to  the  wall, 
supporting  his  brow,  the  while  he  shuddered  with  sympathy 

[378] 


The  Door  to  Eternity 

for  the  man  who  had  sought  his  life  by  a  means  so  foul  — 
and  found  therein  only  death  for  himself. 

It  was  with  an  effort  as  of  rousing  from  a  stupor  that 
O'Rourke  found  himself  again  before  the  door  of  that  room 
wherein  he  had  met  and  left  Monsieur  le  Due,  Victor  de 
Grandlieu. 

How  he  had  managed  to  find  it  he  did  not  know.  His 
mind  was  obsessed  with  a  vision  of  De  Brissac  as  he  had  last 
seen  him  —  toppling  backward  to  his  death.  He  seemed  to 
have  been  thinking  of  nothing  else  for  a  very  long  period  of 
time.  And  it  was  surprising,  to  say  the  least,  to  realize  that, 
during  that  train  of  thought,  he  had  unconsciously  threaded 
his  way  back  through  the  halls  of  Castle  Grandlieu  to  this 
particular  room. 

He  paused,  leaning  dazedly  against  the  wall,  and  passed 
his  hand  across  his  eyes  in  an  endeavor  to  collect  his  thoughts, 
to  marshal  them  into  some  form  at  least  resembling  coherency. 

After  a  bit  he  discovered  that  he  was  listening  —  listening 
intently  for  some  sound  within  that  silent  hall.  There  was 
none,  except  perhaps  the  crackling  of  the  logs  in  the  great 
fireplace,  as  they  spat,  and  sputtered,  and  crumbled  to  ash 
in  the  flames. 

Why  was  he  there?  Why  was  he  not  attempting  to  force 
.his  way  out  of  the  castle?  Or  why  was  he  not  thinking  of 
Madame  la  Princesse? 

At  once  he  understood  that  there  was  an  account  to  be 
balanced  with  Monsieur  the  Duke  —  an  account,  it  was  true, 
of  short  standing,  but  none  the  less  demanding  an  immediate 
settlement. 

He  turned  the  knob,  pushed  open  the  door  and  quietly 
entered. 

[379] 


Duke  Victor  was  sitting  before  the  fire,  gazing  placidly 
into  the  dancing  flames.  His  face  was  half  averted;  and  he 
did  not  trouble  to  look  around  upon  O'Rourke's  entrance. 

The  Irishman  waited,  his  shoulders  against  the  panels  of 
the  closed  door  —  waiting,  he  scarcely  knew  why,  if  it  were 
not  for  monsieur  the  duke  to  assume  the  initiative.  Mean- 
while, his  eyes  roved  the  hall;  and  they  brightened  as  they 
fell  upon  a  rack  of  sabers  at  his  side.  Thoughtfully  he  re- 
moved one  from  its  scabbard,  and,  resting  it  upon  his  arm, 
hilt  outward,  together  with  the  sword  he  had  taken  from 
De  Brissac,  O'Rourke  walked  down  the  hall  toward  the 
duke. 

The  latter  raised  his  head  languidly,  at  the  sound  of  ap- 
proaching footsteps.  With  a  half-interested,  affected  air, 
he  pretended  to  be  examining  his  nails,  spreading  his  fingers 
out  to  the  firelight  and  scrutinizing  each  with  an  excess  of 
care. 

"Well,  my  captain?"  he  inquired,  drawling  in  a  tone  well- 
nigh  of  raillery.  "Well,  Captain  de  Brissac,  has  Monsieur 
the  Colonel  O'Rourke  started  upon  his  long  journey  —  eh?" 
'-  ''No,  Monsieur  the  Duke,"  responded  O'Rourke.  "Ye 
\vill  be  surprised  to  learn  that  Monsieur  the  Colonel  O'Rourke 
objected  to  being  pushed  into  oblivion;  and  ye  will,  I  doubt 
not,  regret  to  hear  that  Monsieur  the  Captain  de  Brissac  has 
—  shall  I  say?  —  walked  the  plank  in  the  O'Rourke's 
stead!" 

At  the  first  syllable,  the  duke  turned.  Before  O'Rourke 
had  made  an  end,  the  other  was  on  his  feet,  every  line  in  his 
face  expressing  the  most  complete  stupefaction.  Gradually, 
however,  he  regained  his  poise;  by  degrees  he  comprehended 
what  must  have  been  to  him,  with  his  unshakable  faith  in  the 
might  of  De  Brissac,  quite  incomprehensible. 

[380] 


The  Door  to  Eternity 

"So?"  he  asked  at  length.  "So  you  have  conquered, 
Irishman?" 

"The  O'Rourke  was  not  made  to  be  thrust  over  the  edge 
of  a  cliff  by  a  mercenary  murderer,  Monsieur  the  Duke." 

"It  is  apparent."  The  duke's  nerve  was  admirable;  he 
turned  away  again,  and  resumed  his  inspection  of  his  finger 
nails.  "And  —  and,"  he  asked  after  a  slight  pause,  "what 
do  you  intend  to  do  about  it,  Colonel  O'Rourke?" 

"  I  propose,  Monsieur  the  Duke,  to  give  ye  an  opportunity 
to  prove  your  right  to  live,"  returned  O'Rourke  calmly. 

"What  does  that  mean,  monsieur?"  The  duke  swung 
about  quickly. 

Bowing  courteously,  the  Irishman  proffered  the  weapons 
over  his  arm. 

"It  is  your  choice,  monsieur  the  canaille"  he  said  gently. 
"Choose  quickly,  monsieur,  and  defend  yourself;  for,  if  ye 
refuse,  by  the  Eternal,  I'll  cut  ye  down  as  ye  stand!" 

The  duke  threw  back  his  head  and  laughed  joyously  —  a 
boyish  laugh,  ringing  with  superb  self-confidence,  that  might 
well  have  sent  a  shiver  quivering  down  O'Rourke's  spine. 

With  a  graceful  gesture,  the  man  seized  the  first  hilt  that 
came  to  his  hand  and  led  the  way  to  the  padded  fencing 
floor. 

"This,"  he  said  mirthfully,  "is  the  apogee  of  chivalry, 
Colonel  O'Rourke.  You  escape  from  one  death  and  willingly 
offer  yourself  upon  the  altar  of  another.  It  is  sad  —  nay, 
touching,  Colonel  O'Rourke.  For  —  well,  it  would  not  be 
fair  to  myself  to  permit  you  to  live,  you  understand.  More- 
over, it  would  be  a  weary  disappointment  to  madame,  should 
I  fall.  So,  then,  I  grant  you  two  minutes  to  make  your 
peace  with  God,  O'Rourke!" 

"Guard!"  cried  O'Rourke  briefly. 
[381] 


Terence  O'Rourke,  Gentleman  Adventurer 

"You  have  no  sins,  then,"  asked  the  duke,  with  evident 
surprise,  "for  which  to  crave  forgiveness  ere  you  die?" 

"Monsieur,"  returned  the  Irishman,  "if  ye  are  not  on 
guard  at  once  —  your  blood  be  upon  your  own  head!" 

He  threw  himself  into  position,  facing  his  antagonist,  and 
saluted.  The  duke  laughed  evilly,  and  carelessly  touched 
O'Rourke's  blade  with  his  own. 

A  second  later  he  was  retreating  swiftly  down  the  hall  — 
falling  back  under  an  onslaught  the  like  of  which  he  had 
seldom  experienced,  in  point  of  sheer  audacity  and  cunning. 

But  he  parried  with  amazing  ease,  giving  ground  until  he 
had  recovered  from  his  surprise,  and  permitting  the  im- 
petuous Irishman  to  tire  himself  to  the  fill  of  his  satisfaction. 

"This  is  not  so  bad,"  he  jeered.  "It  is,  in  fact,  somewhat 
a  pleasure  to  cross  swords  with  a  man  who  knows  his 
weapon." 

"The  pleasure  will  be  short-lived,  I  promise  ye!"  retorted 
O'Rourke. 

The  firelight  flickered  like  lightning  upon  the  crossed 
blades.  The  stamping  of  their  feet  was  like  dull  thunder 
upon  the  padded  fencing  place. 

The  duke  did  not  attempt  again  to  speak.  There  was  an 
anxious  look  in  his  eyes;  he  was  trying  to  fathom  the  school 
by  whose  precepts  O'Rourke  fought  —  and  trying  in  vain; 
for  O'Rourke  fought  with  the  cunning  and  the  technique  of 
all  schools,  or,  when  occasion  demanded,  audaciously,  ac- 
cording to  his  own  inspiration  of  the  moment.  Possibly  he 
was  the  most  dangerous  broadswordsman  in  the  world;  cer- 
tainly his  equal  was  not  to  be  found  in  all  Europe  —  not  even 
at  Castle  Grandlieu  in  the  person  of  the  redoubtable  Duke 
Victor  himself. 

And  the  duke  was  realizing  that  fact.  He  was  tacitly 

[382] 


The  Door  to  Eternity 

owed  to  the  mercy  of  a  man  to  whom  one  had  shown  no 
mercy. 

He  stepped  back  a  pace,  his  features  distorted  with  hate 
and  cunning.  O'Rourke  made  no  move,  but  continued  — 
the  saber  swinging  idly  in  his  hand  —  to  regard  the  van- 
quished man,  reflectively,  as  though  he  were  wondering  what 
was  to  be  the  outcome,  what  portion  —  barring  death  —  he 
should  mete  out  to  him  to  whose  honor  he  might  not  trust. 

The  duke  sidled  away,  his  eyes  fixed  upon  the  adventurer's, 
and  informed  with  an  implacable,  unreasoning  hatred. 
Abruptly,  when  he  had  contrived  to  put  a  sufficient  distance 
between  them,  he  turned  and  began  to  run  down  the  length 
of  the  great  hall,  swiftly,  with  an  eye  ever  glancing  over  his 
shoulder,  watching  to  see  whether  or  no  the  Irishman  would 
follow. 

But  O'Rourke  did  not.  Somewhat  puzzled,  he  waited, 
confident  in  his  own  prowess,  now  that  he  was  armed,  in  his 
ability  to  cope  with  any  device  of  the  duke's,  however  in- 
fernally inspired. 

At  the  center  table,  Monsieur  the  Duke  stopped  and  fum- 
bled with  the  lock  of  a  certain  drawer,  a  slight,  crafty  sneer 
of  triumph  and  contempt  admixed  with  the  fear  and  hatred 
in  his  expression.  He  jerked  open  the  drawer;  it  slipped 
from  its  runners,  crashed  loudly  upon  the  floor,  and  the  duke 
knelt  by  it,  watching  O'Rourke  always,  with  cat-like  vigi- 
iance,  and  groped  an  instant  among  the  papers  it  contained. 

Abruptly  he  started  to  his  feet,  holding  a  small,  shining 
object  that  fitted  snugly  in  his  grip.  There  was  a  flash,  a 
crack,  and  a  bullet  sang  past  O'Rourke  and  splattered  upon 
the  stones  of  the  chimney-place. 

With  a  roar  of  honest  rage,  O'Rourke  started  for  him, 
swinging  the  saber  above  his  head;  it  was  to  that  alone  that  he 


Terence  O'Rourke,  Gentleman  Adventurer 

must  trust  —  to  the  edge  against  the  lead:  to  the  straightfor- 
ward sword  against  the  subtle  bullet. 

Yet  there  were  many  feet  between  him  and  the  revolver  — 
perhaps  ten  yards.  He  had  been  criminally  negligent  in  thus 
permitting  the  man  a  chance  to  redeem  his  life.  He  had 
trusted  his  life  to  the  honor  of  one  without  honor,  and  he  was 
to  pay  the  price  of  his  folly. 

He  had  scarce  moved  before  the  revolver  spoke  again;  and 
again  the  duke  missed.  He  had,  however,  four  bullets  left, 
and  remembering  this,  the  man  calmed  himself,  steadied  his 
hand,  took  time  for  a  more  accurate  aim.  His  next  bullet 
ploughed  through  the  adventurer's  shoulder. 

It  was  like  being  pierced  by  a  rod  of  fire;  for  an  instant 
O'Rourke  was  staggered;  and  then  the  burning  agony  mad- 
dened him.  He  felt  that  he  was  to  pay  the  price  of  his  own 
life  for  the  duke's,  yet  felt  that  he  would  gladly  do  so  if  only 
he  might  pass  the  threshold  of  Eternity  in  company  with  the 
soul  of  Monsieur  le  Due,  Victor  le  Grandlieu. 

Half  blind  with  wrath,  he  threw  himself  towards  the  man, 
like  an  avenging  angel  with  flaming  sword.  There  sounded 
one  more  shot:  fortunately  the  revolver  was  of  small  caliber 
—  no  larger  than  a  .38;  though  the  bullet  again  took  effect 
and  found  lodgment  in  the  Irishman 's  side,  yet  the  impact  of 
it  was  not  sufficient  to  stop  him.  He  whirled  on,  swinging 
the  broadsword  high  above  his  head. 

Cold  fear  tightened  about  the  heart  of  Monsieur  the  Duke. 
His  fingers  trembled.  He  fired  again,  futilely,  then,  in  a  gust 
of  abject  terror,  dropped  his  weapon  and  leaped  back,  cower- 
ing his  arms  wavering  above  his  head,  a  weak  barrier  against 
the  gleaming  yard  of  steel. 

His  heel  caught,  somehow,  upon  a  rug,  and  he  fell,  but  not 
more  swiftly  than  the  saber.  The  blade  smashed  through 

[336] 


The  Door  to  Eternity 

his  guarding  arms,  lopping  off  neatly  one  hand,  crashed 
through  his  skull  as  though  it  had  been  brittle  cardboard, 
cleft  his  head  from  crown  to  chin,  and  stopped,  almost  in- 
extricably imbedded  in  the  man's  chest. 

O'Rourke  tugged  once,  without  reason,  at  the  weapon, 
then  released  his  grip.  He  stepped  back,  and  the  pain  of 
his  wounds  bore  upon  him  like  a  crushing  weight.  He  clapped 
a  hand  to  his  side,  and  felt  the  hot  gush  of  his  life's  blood. 

For  a  space  he  stood  reeling,  a  red  mist  swimming  before 
his  eyes,  trying  to  think  what  now  to  do.  He  must  escape  — 
get  away  somehow  —  win  from  out  that  castle  that,  for  all 
he  knew,  fairly  teemed  with  the  armed  and  faithful  retainers 
of  the  dead  man. 

Already  the  succession  of  shots  had  roused  them;  already 
O'Rourke  could  hear,  faintly  through  the  thundering  in  his 
ears,  shrieks  of  alarm,  shouts,  cries,  the  drumming  of  men's 
footsteps  as  they  ran  hither  and  yon,  searching  out  the  cause 
of  the  disturbance.  .  .  .  And  he  was  powerless! 

He  staggered  forward  and  slumped  into  a  nearby  chair. 
He  could  no  more :  he  trembled  with  pain  and  exhaustion  like 
a  thoroughbred  horse  than  has  been  run  until  it  falls. 

Unconsciously  he  flung  out  an  arm  upon  the  table.  His 
head  fell  forward  upon  him.  .  .  .  The  pain  subsided;  lan- 
guor, invincible,  insidious,  ran  in  his  veins.  .  .  .  And  he 
fancied,  dimly,  deliriously,  that  the  figure  of  his  princess 
hovered  near  him,  that  her  face,  tender,  passionate  and 
compassionate,  hung  over  him. 

His  lips  moved.  "  Beatrix!"  he  muttered.  "Beatrix!... 
Faith,  'tis  ...  worth  while  .  .  .  even  to  die  for  ye  ...  heart's 
dearest ..." 


[387] 


CHAPTER  XX 

THE  END  OF  THE  QUEST 

HE  came  to  his  wits,  strangling,  his  throat  burned  by  a 
stinging  dose  of  brandy,  and  sat  up,  coughing,  conscious  that 
the  pain  in  his  shoulder  and  his  side  was  growing  yet  more 
agonizing  with  each  passing  instant. 

Blinded  with  it,  he  was  yet  aware  that  he  was  not  alone. 
Realizing  this  he  strove  to  force  himself  into  clear  sentience. 

As  though  from  a  distance  of  many  leagues  a  voice  thrilled 
in  his  ears  —  a  voice  to  whose  sweet  accents  he  had  not  lis- 
tened for  long  years. 

"...  Terence  I ..."  it  whispered,  "...  Terence,  beloved ! ..." 

"  'Tis  not  so,"  he  muttered  thickly.     "  Tis  . . .  not  so ! . . ." 

A  hand,  soft,  cool,  light  as  the  leaf  of  a  rose,  was  upon  his 
forehead;  there  was  a  shiver  of  breath  upon  his  cheek;  and 
the  whispered  appeal:  "Terence,  Terence,  my  beloved!" 

Through  all  the  pain  and  nausea,  through  the  deadening 
lethargy  that  seemed  to  be  numbing  him  thoroughly,  pene- 
trated the  knowledge  that  he  had  won  —  somehow  —  to  the 
presence  of  his  heart's  mistress.  With  a  magnificent  effort, 
drunkenly,  he  straightened  up  in  his  chair,  erected  his  head, 
opened  his  eyes,  even  found  strength  to  bring  himself  abruptly, 
with  a  mechanical  movement,  to  his  feet. 

"Princesse!"  he  said  clearly.  "I  am  come  ...  to  die  for 
ye  ...  as  I  promised  .  . ." 

The  filmy  mists  of  weakness  that  had  lain,  tremulously, 
before  his  eyes,  seemed  to  tremble  and  fall  apart  —  as  the 

[388] 


I 

_dl 


The  End  of  the  Quest 

mists  of  morning  before  the  rays  of  the  sun.  He  saw,  and 
saw,  it  seemed,  more  distinctly  than  ever  he  had  been  able  to 
observe,  his  princess,  and  the  beauty  that  was  hers,  —  her 
face  close  to  his,  her  eyes  upon  his  own,  glorious  with  the 
light  of  the  love  that  she  bore  him. 

"Terence!"  she  whispered  again;  and  he  felt  her  arms 
close  about  him,  lending  him  strength  to  support  himself. 
"Terence,  sweetheart!  Ah,  but  you  are — " 

"Dying,  madame,"  he  breathed  hoarsely.  "'Tis  me 
fate  .  .  .  and  me  desire  ...  to  die  for  ye  .  .  ." 

He  heard  her  sob  softly.  "  But  you  will  not  —  must  not 
die,  sweetheart.  You  —  ah,  but  I  thought  you  had  come 
back  to  claim  me  —  at  last,  Terence,  at  last ! .  . .  And  I  had 
waited  so  long,  so  long,  my  beloved!" 

He  passed  a  hand  across  his  eyes,  with  the  other  gripped 
the  back  of  a  chair. 

"D'ye  mean  it?"  he  cried.  "That  ye  want  me,  after  all, 
my  princess?  ..." 

"Want  you,  dearest?  Ah,  but  that  I  might  die  in  your 
place." 

He  seemed  to  concentrate  himself  as  by  a  powerful  putting 
forth  of  his  will.  The  veins  upon  his  forehead  stood  out 
darkly;  the  muscles  of  his  jaw  were  like  huge  knots  beneath 
his  skin.  He  forced  speech  between  his  clenched  teeth. 

"Is  there  .  .  .  chance  of  escape?  ..." 

"I  have  locked  the  doors,"  she  told  him.  "None  can 
enter.  We  are  alone,  and  there  is  a  secret  way  out  of  the 
castle." 

"Then,"  he  interrupted  tensely,  "give  me  brandy  .  .  . 
'Twas  that  ye  gave  me  the  minute  gone  ?  .  .  ." 

She  pressed  the  edge  of  a  goblet  against  his  lips.  He 
gripped  its  stem,  threw  back  his  head  and  swallowed,  gulp 

[389] 


Terence  O'Rourke,  Gentleman  Adventurer 

ftfter  gulp.  Sound  and  in  his  right  mind,  the  quantity  would 
have  well-nigh  killed  him.  At  the  moment  it  lent  him,  tem- 
porarily, fictive  but  necessary  strength.  He  showed  it  at 
once  in  his  manner. 

"Time?"  he  demanded. 

"They  are  battering  upon  the  doors;  they  may  break  in." 

"I  can't  go  this  way." 

It  was  true  that  the  people  of  the  castle  were  assaulting  the 
doors  of  the  great  hall;  the  thundering  blows  upon  the  stout 
oaken  panels  were  rapid  and  constantly  increasing  in  force. 
Yet  the  doors  were  strong,  and  would  hold  yet  a  little  while. 

"The  way  out?"  he  asked. 

She  seemed  to  glide  across  the  floor,  swiftly,  to  one  wall, 
where,  beneath  a  hanging  tapestry,  she  discovered  to  him  a 
sliding  panel.  "  Here  ?  "  she  announced,  waiting  expectantly, 
quivering  with  anxiety  and  pity. 

"Turn  your  back,"  he  commanded  roughly,  "and  stay  so 
for  —  till  I  speak." 

She  obeyed.  Despite  the  exquisite  pain  he  endured,  the 
man  nerved  himself  to  manage  to  remove  his  coat.  With 
his  knife  he  slit  away  one  sleeve  and  the  side  of  his  shirt  — 
grinding  his  teeth  with  mortal  anguish.  Then,  swiftly  tear- 
ing the  linen  into  strips,  he  moistened  them  with  water  from 
a  silver  pitcher  on  the  table  and  plastered  them  upon  his 
wounds.  "They  be  not  wide,  nor  deep,"  he  said  to  himself. 
"'Tis  not  worthy  the  name  of  O'Rourke  I  am  if  I  cannot 
overcome  them  —  win  out  of  here  —  mend.  ..." 

Somehow  —  it  seemed  by  hours  of  painful  struggling,  he 
got  the  coat  on  again  and  buttoned  it  tight  about  him.  Then, 
with  his  one  sound  arm  pressing  the  other  against  his  side, 
tightly,  to  hold  the  bandages  —  such  as  they  were  —  in 
place,  he  turned,  gathered  himself  together  for  a  supreme 

[390] 


The  End  of  the  Quest 

effort,  and  with  a  tolerably  firm  step  moved  across  the  floor 
and  joined  the  woman. 

He  noted  that  she  was  attired  as  though,  for  traveling.  The 
circumstance  puzzled  him,  yet  at  the  moment  he  could  spare 
no  strength  for  words. 

"Ready,  madame,"  he  announced  with  difficulty. 

The  woman  stepped  through  the  opened  panel  into  stark 
blackness,  which  lay  beyond.  He  followed;  and  she  turned 
and  slid  the  panel  back  into  position.  A  furious  crash  told 
him  that  the  doors  to  the  hall  —  one  or  both  of  them  —  had 
given  away. 

Summoning  the  utmost  of  his  iron  resolution,  the  Irishman 
permitted  the  woman  to  take  the  lead,  stumbling  after  her, 
guiding  himself  through  the  impenetrable  darkness  by  the 
sounds  of  her  passage  —  the  rustle  of  her  skirts  and  the  light, 
almost  inaudible  tap  of  her  footsteps. 

"Faith,  'tis  a  woman  after  me  own  heart,  she  is!"  he 
thought.  "To  lead  on  so,  without  weakness  or  faltering, 
in  a  time  like  this  —  without  stopping  to  comfort  me,  or  to 
mourn!" 

He  felt  himself  stronger  with  each  instant.  The  liquor 
was  acting  upon  him  oddly,  seeming  to  flood  his  being  with 
great,  recurring  waves  of  power.  This  effect,  he  knew,  was 
but  transient;  yet  it  would  serve. 

It  seemed  that  they  trod  miles  of  dense  darkness;  they 
descended  steps,  climbed  again,  felt  their  way  down  narrow 
and  tortuous  passages,  cold  as  the  heart  of  death  itself.  It 
was  a  progress  interminable  to  the  wounded  man:  hours 
seemed  to  elapse. 

"Surely,"  he  thought,  "'tis  morning,  be  now." 

Yet  when  they  unexpectedly  emerged,  it  was  into  the  open 
air  of  the  mountainside,  and  the  winter's  night  still  held  over 


Terence  O'Rourke,  Gentleman  Adventurer 

the  land.  Above  hung  sable  and  opaque  skies,  cloud  cloaked; 
below  the  mountainside  sloped  to  the  clustered,  twinkling 
lights  of  Montbar,  the  city,  to  which  the  road  wound  down 
the  mountain,  a  serpentine  course  outlined  by  threads  of 
electric  light. 

Behind  him  —  apparently  the  eighth  of  a  mile  distant  — 
the  stark  and  ugly  battlements  of  the  Castle  of  Grandlieu 
reared  their  blunt  heads  to  Heaven.  Before  them,  imme- 
diately at  hand,  lay  the  road,  and  upon  it  squatted,  huge  and 
monstrous,  an  automobile,  purring  huskily,  diffusing  a  taint 
of  petrol  upon  the  cold  night  air,  illuminating  the  highway 
with  huge,  glaring  head  lamps. 

The  woman  paused  and  caught  O'Rourke  in  her  arms 
again.  "My  beloved!"  she  said.  And  then,  turning,  called 
aloud:  "Monsieur  Chambret!" 

A  man  clambered  hastily  out  of  the  tonneau  of  the  car  and 
came  running  towards  them.  With  a  few  brief  words  the 
woman  explained  the  situation,  O'Rourke  said  nothing. 
He  could  not.  It  was  all  he  could  encompass  to  keep  his 
feet.  Chambret  sprang  to  his  side,  silently,  and  gave  him 
aid  to  the  automobile.  Somehow  the  Irishman  was  got  in 
upon  the  rear  seat.  The  princesse  entered  with  him.  Cham- 
bret buried  them  both  under  a  mountain  of  fur  robes. 

O'Rourke  closed  his  eyes,  his  head  resting  upon  the 
woman's  shoulder,  her  lips  —  he  never  forgot  the  cool,  firm 
touch  of  them  —  upon  his  forehead.  He  heard  the  motor 
cough  raucously  and  was  conscious  of  a  thunderous  vibra- 
tion, together  with  a  sweep  of  nipping  air  against  his  face. 

The  freshness  of  it  and  the  crashing  of  the  car  through  the 
night  kept  him  conscious  for  a  space.  He  whispered  now 
and  again  with  the  woman  of  his  heart  —  little,  intimate 
phrases  that  epitomized  the  undying  passion  that  was  theirs. 

[392] 


The  End  of  the  Quest 

Once  she  told  him:  "The  frontier  is  not  far,  sweetheart. 
Once  over  that,  beyond  immediate  pursuit,  we  will  stop  at  an 
inn  and  summon  a  surgeon.  Can  you  bear,  O  my  dearest, 
to  wait  so  long?" 

"I  —  Ah,  faith!  I  could  endure  a  thousand  deaths  — 
and  yet  live  on  —  in  your  arms  .  . ." 

And  again  he  asked:  "'Tis  miraculous  —  this  escape! 
Tell  me  how  it  was  contrived. " 

"Through  Monsieur  Chambret/'  she  replied:  "Monsieur 
Chambret,  to  whom  we  owe  all.  He  communicated  with 
me  through  my  maid,  by  means  of  that  secret  passage,  of 
which  you  know.  And,  not  knowing  when  you  would 
arrive,  dear  heart  —  Ah,  but  you  were  long !  —  we  laid  out 
plans  for  an  escape  whether  or  not  you  came  ...  I  had  sworn 
that  I  would  marry  no  man  but  you ! ...  It  was  schemed  for 
this  very  morning;  the  automobile  was  to  be  in  waiting  on 
that  by-path.  I  was  in  the  act  of  leaving  the  castle  when  I 
heard  the  shots  ...  I  ran,  was  the  first  to  enter  the  hall." 

"And  so  ...  Ah,  sweetheart,  sweetheart!  If  the  O'Rourke 
dies,  'twill  be  of  sheer  happiness!" 

She  caught  him  more  closely  to  her.  The  pain  in  his 
wounds  seemed  to  be  lessening;  a  delicious  and  dreamy  lan- 
guor crept  over  him,  and  he  lay  very  still,  content  in  her  arms, 
feeling  himself  slip  gradually  into  slumber  from  which  he 
could  not  be  sure  that  he  should  ever  waken:  while  the  motor 
car  crashed  and  roared  on  through  the  dawn  —  the  bright 
dawn  of  many  confident  to-morrows. 


393  j 


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